o.)ALO/WE;  G)HEPARD 


BY- HELEN  -M -WIN SLOW 


^Tl 


1^^  ■ 


PERKINS  LIBRARY 

Duke  University 


I^re  Books 


k 


^^^^; 


k  V 


■^^ 


SALOME  SHEPAED,  REEOEIER. 


HELEN  M.  WINSLOW. 


BOSTON,   MASS.: 


^xtm  ^\m^\\m  (Jjomimtttj, 


COPLEY  SQUARE, 
1893. 


Copyright  1893, 

BY 

HELEN  M.   WINSLOW. 


ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED. 


ARENA  PRESS. 


W7-7 


"  Pardon,  gentles  all, 
The  flat,  unraised  spirit  that  hath  dared 
On  this  unworthy  scaffold  to  bring  forth 
So  great  au  object." 

Shakespeare. 


SALOME  SHEPAED,  EEEORMEE. 


Salome  Shepard  gazed  wonderingly  at  the 
crowd  of  people  in  the  street,  as  she  guided 
her  pony-phaeton  through  the  factory  pre- 
cincts. 

"  What  can  be  the  matter  with  these  people  ?  " 
she  thought.  "  I'm  sure  they  ought  to  have 
gone  to  their  w^ork  before  this." 

It  was  a  wet  October  day.  The  narrow 
street  was  slippery  Avith  the  muddy  water  that 
oozed  along  to  the  gutters.  The  factory 
boarding-houses  loomed  up  on  either  side, 
dingy  and  desolate.  Even  the  mills  looked 
larger  and   coarser,  in  the  gloomy  air  of  the 


6  <f  alome  ^'hqntvtl,  |lcfovmcr. 

As  she  drove  by  them,  the  fair  owner  listened 
in  vain  for  the  rumble  of  machinery.  Inside, 
the  great,  well-lighted  rooms  looked  dreary 
and  barn-like  in  the  gray  mist  that  struggled 
through  the  windows. 

One  hour  before,  the  machinery,  shrieking 
and  groaning,  had  voiced  the  protest  of  the 
"  hands  "  against  their  fancied  and  their  real 
wrongs.  One  hour  before,  every  employe  had 
been  in  his  or  her  place.  But  the  gloom  of  the 
atmosphere  could  not  obscure  the  suppressed 
excitement  of  the  morning.  Shortsighted  and 
blind  to  their  best  interest,  they  might  have 
been  ;  but  there  was  not  a  man  among  them 
who  did  not  feel  a  tremendous  underlying 
principle  at  stake. 

And  so,  at  precisely  ten  o'clock,  the  machinery 
had  suddenly  and  mysteriously  stopped,  and 
every  man,  woman  and  child,  without  a  word, 
had  left  the  mills. 

All  this  had  happened  while  Salome  Shepard 
was  calling  on  an  elderly  friend  of  her  mother's 
at  the  other  end  of  the  town.  It  had  been  a 
delightfully  cosy  morning  in  spite  of  the  rain  ; 
and,  after  a  gossijDy  fashion,  they  had  passed 
it  in    discussing,   as   women    will,  the  newest 


^atamc  ^hcpavtt,  Reformer.  7 

pattern  of  crochet,  the  last  society-novel,  the 
comino;  concerts  in  town. 

Salome's  mood  was  the  comfortable  one  con- 
duced by  such  soothing  intellectual  food,  as 
she  set  forth  on  her  homeward  drive.  The 
rain  had  ceased,  and  only  along  the  river  did 
the  mists  hover,  suggesting  to  her  idle  fancy 
the  thick  smoke  which  hangs  over  a  smoulder- 
in  o-  fire. 

o 

But  the  fire  which  had  been  creej)ing  under 
the  life  of  the  Shawsheen  Mills  had  but  just 
burst  into  flames,  which  mounted  higher  and 
higher  as  the  day  wore  on. 

All  through  the  factory  precincts  the  un- 
wonted excitement  was  manifest.  Groups  of 
employes  were  everywhere — on  the  street- 
corners,  in  front  of  tenements  and  boarding- 
houses,  in  the  middle  of  the  street ; — and  all 
were  engaged  in  absorbing  discussion  of  one 
excitinof  theme — the  strike. 

Men  without  coats  or  hats ;  women  with 
shawls  thrown  loosely  over  their  heads  ;  girls, 
bonnetless  and  neglectful  of  dress  ;  unkempt 
old  women,  who  were  perhaps  the  home-makers 
for  these  hard-worked  and  ill-paid  people  ;  all 
were  indifferent  save  to  one  subject. 


8  ^«kmc  ^hci»ant,  Ikfatwtv, 

Even  the  quick  passage,  through  their  midst, 
of  the  pony-phaeton  and  its  mistress  failed  to 
attract  attention  beyond  an  occasional  surly 
glance  from  the  men  or  an  envious  one  from  the 
women.  Unmindful  of  the  long  days  in  store, 
when  there  would  be  ample  time  to  discuss 
their  wrongs,  they  remained  huddled  in  excited 
groups  in  the  wet  October  air,  talking  over 
the  strike, — the  famous  strike  of  the  Shaw- 
sheen  Mills. 

"  I  declare  ! "  muttered  the  young  woman 
who  was  hurrying  the  pony  out  of  these  dis- 
agreeable surroundings;  "it  must  be  a  strike! 
Nothing  else  would  crowd  them  into  the  street 
so.  I  wonder  what  they  want  ?  Dear  me  ! 
what  nuisances  these  work-people  are.  Why 
can't  they  be  sensible,  and  when  they  are  earn- 
ing a  living,  be  content  ?  Dear  me  !  if  I  had 
the  making  over  of  this  world  I  would  make 
everybody  comfortably  off,  and  nobody  rich — 
unless  it  were  myseK,"  she  added,  laughing; 
for  absolute  truthfulness  was  a  necessity  of 
Salome  Shepard's  nature,  and  she  knew  per- 
fectly well  that  she  could  not  do  without  the 
luxuries  to  which  she  had  always  been  accus- 
tomed. 


^alumc  ^Ucpavrt,  |Ufovmcv.  9 

"  If  I  had  the  making-  over  of  the  workl !  " 

The  words  repeated  themselves  in  her  mind. 
If  any  human  being-  has  the  power  of  making 
over  the  workl  in  any  smallest  degree,  something 
whispered,  that  person  must  be  a  young, 
attractive  woman,  with  a  vast  property  and 
absolute  control  of  several  hundred  people, 
besides  two  millions  of  dollars  in  her  own  rioht. 

"  Dear  me  !  "  she  said  aloud,  as  she  drove 
up  the  graveled  road  under  the  dripping  yellow 
beeches.  "  How  positively  dreadful  it  must  be 
to  be  a  reformer  !  How  would  I  look  in  a 
bloomer  costume  and  black  bombazine  bonnet? 
No.  Let  things  alone,  keep  to  your  sphere, 
young  woman, — the  proper,  well-regulated, 
protected  and  chaijeroned  sphere  of  a  delicate 
young  lady,  and  let  the  world  right  its  own 
wronofs." 

She  jumped  lightly  from  the  phaeton,  tossing 
the  reins  to  James,  and  showing  her  fine,  well- 
turned  fiofure  to  excellent  advantagfe  as  she  ran 
up  the  broad  steps. 

The  massive  doors  turned  noiselessly  at  her 
approach.  She  passed  through  the  fine  old 
hall  and  went  directly  up  the  broad  oak  stair- 
case to  her  room. 


10  <f  utomc  ^hejntvtt,  ^vcfovmff. 

"  How  comfortable  this  is,"  she  said  to  her- 
self, as  the  blazing  woocl-fire  threw  flickering 
shadows  over  the  dainty  hangings,  the  warm 
rugs  and  the  choice  pictures. 

But  even  as  she  drew  a  long  sigh  of  con- 
tentment with  her  lot,  a  picture  of  wet  and 
muddy  streets,  thickset  with  groups  of  brawny 
men  and  bedraggled,  unkempt  women,  intruded 
itself,  and  the  sigh  changed  its  tenor. 

"  If  I  only  had  the  making  over  of  the 
world  !  "  she  said  again  aloud  j  and  added  reso- 
lutely, "  but  I  haven't." 


<^ivlum«j  ^hcpuvrt,  |Uf0Vu«f.  11 


II. 


The  Shawsheen  Mills  had  been  established 
many  years  before  the  opening  of  this  story 
by  Salome's  grandfather,  Newbern  Shepard. 
They  constituted  one  of  the  chief  manufac- 
turing concerns  of  Shepardtown.  They  made 
more  cloth,  and  that  of  a  better  quality,  than 
any  other  mill  outside  the  "  City  of  Spindles." 
They  employed  a  much  larger  force  of  oper- 
atives than  any  other  factory  in  the  place,  and 
had  always  held  a  controlling  interest  in  town 
affairs. 

When  the  Shawsheen  Mills  were  first  started, 
blooming  girls  from  all  parts  of  Massachusetts 
came  swarming  to  them,  glad  of  a  ncAv  and 
respectable  employment, — came  with  earnest 
purpose  to  make  this  new  life  and  its  outcomes 
subservient  to  a  better  future.  The  conscien- 
tious New  England  girl  of  those  days  took  as 


12  $^\mt  ^hcpattt,  leformft:. 

much  pride  in  making  a  perfect  web  of  cloth 
as  thoug-h  it  were  for  her  own  wearino-.  Aware 
that  her  employers  took  an  interest  in  her  wel- 
fare, aside  from  the  fact  that  she  was  a  part  of 
the  motive  power  of  the  mill,  she  rewarded 
them  with  a  full  performance  of  her  duty.  A 
mutual  goodfellowsliip  had  existed,  then,  be- 
tween employer  and  employed  in  the  years 
when  old  Newbern  Shepard  was  at  the  head 
of  his  mills. 

All  this  had  changed.  Newbern  Shepard 
had  died  after  a  long  and  successful  career, 
leaving  the  business  to  his  son,  Floyd  Shepard. 
The  latter,  educated  at  Harvard,  with  five  years 
of  study  afterward  in  Germany,  had  developed 
little  taste  for  an  active  business  hfe  such  as 
his  father  had  led.  He  had,  consequently, 
placed  the  entire  business  in  the  hands  of  Otis 
Greenough,  a  friend  of  his  college-days  and  a 
hard-headed  business  man.  Floyd  Shepard 
had  idled  the  greater  part  of  his  time  before 
reaching  the  age  of  fifty  in  various  parts  of 
the  world. 

Then  he  came  home,  married  a  Baltimore 
belle,  and  passed  his  old  age  in  his  native 
place. 


<^alumc  <^Uciiav(l,  ^cfanncv.  13 

Even  then,  lie  gave  little  thought  to  the 
details  of  business.  He  added  to  and  im- 
proved the  home  of  his  forefathers,  until  his 
house  and  grounds  were  acknowledged  to  be  the 
finest  in  the  state.  After  four  years  of  married 
life,  his  young  wife  died,  leaving  him  one  child 
— a  babe  of  three  days.  Then  he  retired  into 
his  study,  and  lived  only  among  his  books. 

"Don't  trouble  me  with  the  business,"  he 
would  say  to  Otis  Greenough,  on  the  rare 
occasions  when  it  seemed  necessary  to  consult 
the  owner  of  the  mills.  "  I  care  nothinsf  as  to 
how  you  manage  the  works,  and  know  less 
how  it  should  be  done.  Suit  yourself  as  to 
details,  and  keep  the  mills  paying  a  good  profit. 
I  shall  be  satisfied." 

Upon  this  principle  the  mills  had  been  run 
for  thirty  years.  The  agent  and  his  superin- 
tendents had  devoted  themselves  to  the  prob- 
lem of  getting  out  more  goods  and  making 
more  money  than  their  competitors,  while  keej)- 
ing  the  standard  of  their  wares  up  to  its  old 
mark.  They  had  no  time  for  the  problem  of 
human  life  involved.  The  first  and  principal 
question  had  required  a  severe  struggle,  with 
active  brains  and  sharp  wits.     What  wonder, 


14  ^altrmt  ^hfpr4,  IJ^fovmfv. 

then,  that  the  increasing  mass  of  operatives 
had  come  to  be  considered,  every  year,  less  as 
human  beings  in  need  of  help  and  encourage- 
ment, and  more  as  mechanical  attachments  of 
the  mills  ? 

Only  such  operatives  as  had  been  brought 
up  in  the  mills  realized  the  difference.  The 
emj)loyes  were  mostly  of  the  unwashed  popu- 
lation, expecting  nothing  but  a  place  to  earn 
their  living  and  but  scanty  pay  for  it. 

Having,  at  the  outset,  no  confidence  in  their 
employers,  and  no  feeling  of  goodwill  towards 
them,  they  had  no  conscientious  motive  behind 
their  work.  On  the  contrary,  they  stood  on 
the  defensive,  watching  for  oppression  and 
tyranny,  and  ready  to  take  arms  against  them. 

This  was  the  state  of  things  when  the  first 
regularly  organized  strike  occurred  at  the 
Shawsheen  Mills. 

Otis  Greenough,  although  an  old  man,  was 
still  at  the  head  of  the  mills.  Floyd  Shepard's 
death  three  years  before  had  made  no  difference 
with  the  vast  business  interests  in  his  name. 
In  willing  everything  he  owned  to  his  daughter, 
who  was  already  heiress  to  a  large  fortune 
from  her  mother's  family,  he  had  provided  that 


3^\o\M  Mnnn%  %X(Uvmv,  15 

Otis  Greenougli  should  be  chief  agent  durino- 
the  remainder  of  his  life ;  and  that  the  mills 
should  continue  on  the  same  plan  by  which 
they  had  been  run  for  the  past  quarter  of  a 
century. 

Otis  Greenough  was  an  arbitrary  man,  with 
that  enormous  strength  of  will  wliich  a  man 
must  have  who  is  to  control  and  manas^e  two 
thousand  people  and  an  increasing  business. 

If,  in  the  march  of  economic  progress,  he 
chose  to  make  changes  in  the  machinery  of  the 
mills,  he  consulted  no  one,  and  cared  nothino- 
for  the  black  looks  or  surly  mutterings  of  the 
operative  who  might  fancy  himself  injured 
thereby.  Had  it  been  hinted  to  him  that  his 
operatives  might  be  trained  to  take  a  personal 
interest  in  the  success  or  failure  of  new  experi- 
ments or,  indeed,  that  they  had  any  right  to  his 
brotherly  consideration,  he  would  have  flouted 
the  idea. 

It  was  his  boast  that  he  never  wasted  words 
on  the  operatives.  In  short,  he  was  as  indif- 
ferent to  the  rights  of  Labor  as  his  Lancashire 
spinners  were  to  the  interests  of  Capital.  Hence 
the  strike. 

At  noon  of  the   day  that  Salome  Shepard 


16  ^atomc  ^hcpavd,  ^Ufovmcv. 

had  driven  through  the  factory  street,  Otis 
Greeiiough  sat  in  his  private  office  with  his 
two  superintendents,  the  treasurer  and  cashier 
of  the  mills,  and  one  or  two  subordinates.  As 
the  bell  struck  for  twelve,  five  men  from  the 
various  departments  filed  in  and  presented  a 
written  document.  They  were  the  committee 
appointed  by  the  new  Labor  Union. 

Mr.  Greenough  took  the  paper  with  an  air 
that  showed  him  to  be  in  anything  but  a 
conciliatory  mood.  Without  opening  it,  he 
burst  forth  angrily  : 

"  What,  in  the  name  of  common -sense,  is 
this  farce  anyhow  ?  What  do  you  mean  by 
leaving  your  work  and  presuming  to  come  here, 
dictating  terms  to  me  f  " 

"  The  paper  will  exjDlain  everything,  sir," 
replied  the  foremost  of  the  committee.  "  We 
have  our  rights — or  should  have  them.  The 
time  has  come  when  we  propose  to  get  them. 
Will  you  read  the  petition,  sir?" 

"  No,"  thundered  the  choleric  old  man.  "  Not 
in  your  presence.  Villard,  treat  with  them." 
Mr.  Greenough  was  too  angry  to  say  more. 

Mr.  Villard,  the  younger  superintendent, 
stepped  forward. 


^'atomc  ^hcpavrt,  ^^cfovmcv.  17 

"  I  think,"  he  said,  "  that  you  had  better 
leave  us  for  a  time.  We  shall  need  to  con- 
sider your  proposals,  whatever  they  may  be. 
Go  now,  and  come  again  later — say  at  four 
o'clock."  Agreeing'  to  this  proposition,  the 
five  men  turned  and  left  the  office.  Mr.  Villard 
sat  down  again,  waiting  for  the  agent  to  speak. 

"  The  confounded  whelps  !  "  ejaculated  Mr. 
Greenough,  as  soon  as  he  could  find  breath. 
"  Open  that  paper,  Villard — the  impudent 
puppies  !  " 

Without  answering,  John  Villard  tore  open 
the  envelope,  and  read  the  document  aloud  : 

WJiereas,  we,  the  undersigned,  believing  that  our  interests 
demand  an  oiganization  which  shall  promote  and  protect 
affairs  relating  to  us  as  laboring  men;  and 

Whereas,  we  have  already  organized  and  maintained  such  a 
society;  it  is  now  unanimously  agreed  that  we  insist  upon  the 
recognition  of  such  a  body  by  our  employers,  and  upon  their 
making  certain  concessions  for  the  benefit  of  that  body. 

Whereas,  there  is  a  ten-hour  system  established  in  this  state 
by  law;  we  hereby  resolve  that  we  will  refuse  to  work  ten  and 
a  half  or  eleven  hours  a  day  as  has  been  demanded  of  us. 

Whereas,  we  believe  the  introduction  of  the  new  frames  are 
detrimental  to  the  interests  of  the  mule-spinners;  we  resolve 
that  they  must  be  taken  out,  and  the  old  mules  replaced,  with 
a  written  agreement  that  no  more  of  the  obnoxious  machinery 
shall  be  added  for,  at  least,  five  years. 

TT7tereas,  there  has  been  an  attempt  made  to  reduce  our 
wages,  especially  in  the  weaving  department;  we  hereby 
resolve  that  we  will  submit  to  no  curtailment  of  wages,  and  to 

2 


18  ^'atffmc  ^hfjmvtT,  ^tUvmsK,- 

demand  payment  of  all  wages  weekly,  as  is  the  custom  in 
certain  other  mills  in  this  state. 

Trusting  that  these  our  petitions  may  be  granted,  our  rights 
respected,  and  that  harmonious  relations  will  soon  be  estab- 
lished between  us,  we  take  pleasure  in  signing  ourselves 

"  Members  of  the  Shawsheen  Labok  Union." 

Before  Jolm  Villard  had  finished  readmg 
the  paper,  Mr.  Greenough  had  risen  and  was 
pacing  the  floor  excitedly. 

"  Shocking  !  "  he  exclaimed,  as  Mr.  Villard 
folded  the  paper  and  returned  it  to  its  envelope. 
"Preposterous  !  Do  they  think  they  can 
impose  upon  me  with  such  a  jumble  of  unrea- 
soning nonsense  as  that  ?  Labor  Union,  in- 
deed !  Why,  the  rascals  act  as  if  there  were 
no  interests  but  those  of  labor.  And  a  beau- 
tiful time  they've  taken  to  strike — when  orders 
are  pouring  in  faster  than  we  can  possibly  keep 
up  with  them.     A  fine  time,  indeed  !  " 

"  I  suppose,"  said  John  Villard,  fearlessly, 
"  there  seems  a  slight  injustice  to  them,  in  cut- 
ting: down  their  washes  at  such  a  time." 

"  What  right  have  they  to  dictate,  I  should 
like  to  inquire?"  answered  the  irate  agent. 
"  If  they  were  not  a  bigoted,  unreasoning  set, 
they'd  know  they  never  can  serve  the  interests 
of  labor  in  such  a  way.     They'd  realize  that 


^atamc  <^hci)ar(T,  ^cfonncr.  19 

they  are  only  biting'  off  their  own  noses  !  They 
have  probably  been  worked  upon  by  some 
crank  of  an  agitator.  If  they  Avere  not  igno- 
rant clogs,  they'd  know  that  they  could  best 
serve  the  interests  of  labor  by  being  faithful  to 
those  of  capital.  Why,"  he  concluded,  his 
face  growing  redder  in  his  wrath,  "is  this 
America  ?  Is  this  our  boasted  New  England  ? 
Is  this  a  free  country  ?  By  Jove  !  I've  heard 
of  this  sort  of  thing  in  England,  but  in  this 
republican  land,  this  boasted  region  of  free- 
dom— Great  Scott !     What  are  we  cominof  to  ?  " 

"  It's  this  accursed  trades-unionism  creeping 
in  among  us,"  put  in  the  treasurer's  mild  voice, 
as  Otis  Greenough  paused  for  breath.  "  I've 
been  expecting  it." 

"  Blast  it,  why  didn't  you  mention  it  then?  " 
returned  Mr.  Greenough.  But  the  treasurer 
retired  in  confusion  behind  his  books  and  did 
not  answer. 

"  Well,  Villard,"  continued  the  agent,  "  I 
hope  now  you  will  give  up  the  Utopian  schemes 
you've  been  nursing  for  the  elevation  of  the 
laboring  classes.  You  see  just  what  a  foolish, 
unthinking,  unreliable  set  of  men  we  have  to 
deal  with." 


20  <^alom«  ^hcpavtt,  ^(former. 

"  On  the  contrary,  sir,"  returned  the  second 
supermtendent,  firmly,  "  I  sympathize,  to  a 
degree,  with  them.  I  agree  that  they  have 
taken  an  inopportune  time  to  enforce  their 
views,  and  regret  that  they  couki  not  have  seen 
fit  to  keep  at  work  while  their  petition  was 
being  considered  ;  and  I  would  advise " 

"  I  want  no  man's  advice  until  I  ask  it," 
interrupted  the  elder  man.  "  This  is  our  first 
strike,  and  it  shall  be  the  last  so  long  as  I  have 
authority  here.  Humph  !  They  think  they 
can  intimidate  me  !  They  have  chosen  this 
time  because  they  think  I  must  yield  now. 
They  little  know  me.  Otis  Greenough  has  not 
run  the  Shawsheen  Mills  successfully  thirty 
years,  to  be  brow-beaten  and  conquered  in  the 
end  by  a  pack  of  ignorant  laborers." 

"But  how  is  this  to  end  ? "  asked  the  first 
superintendent,  speaking  for  the  first  time. 

"  It  can  end  whenever  these  men  will  take 
back  their  impudent  paper  and  go  to  work. 
Villard,  when  they  show  up  again — four  o'clock 
did  you  say? — you  will  tell  them  so.  Offer 
them  a  chance  to  go  to  work  to-morrow  morning 
on  the  old  terms.  You  needn't  give  in  to  them 
one  inch.     Do  you  hear  ?     Not  a  jot  or  tittle." 


,^al0mc  (^hcpavd,  ^Icfovrnfr.  21 

"And  what  if  they  do  not  accept?  "  asked 
Villard. 

"  Why,  advertise.  Advertise  far  and  near. 
Get  new  help.  We'll  open  the  mills  and  run 
them,  too,  right  in  their  very  teeth.  I'll  show 
them  that  he  Avho  has  been  master  here  foj 
thirty  years  is  master  until  he  dies." 


22  ^nXomt  Mm^^f  ^tfmna* 


III. 


The  clioleric  agent's  blood  was  fairly  up, 
and  he  now  set  himself  to  plan  for  the  coming 
warfare.  When  the  committee  from  the  labor 
union  made  its  appearance  at  four  o'clock,  the 
agent  refused  to  treat  directly  with  them.  He 
retired  to  his  inner  office,  whence  issued  a 
moment  later  an  "  open  letter  to  the  employes 
of  the  Shawsheen  Mills."  The  circular  was 
composed  and  written  entirely  by  himself,  and 
was  quite  characteristic  of  his  high-handed 
authority.  It  stated  that  "  as  the  control  of 
an  owner  over  his  property  was  guaranteed 
by  the  law  of  the  land,  and  was  of  such  un- 
questionable character  as  ought  not  to  be 
meddled  with  by  any  other  individual  or  com- 
bination of  individuals,  the  agent  of  the  Shaw- 
sheen Mills,  acting  for  their  owner,  would  brook 
no  such  interference  as  had  been  attempted." 


<^atome  <^lwpard,  ^tfovmcv,  23 

'  But,  in  bombastic  language,  he  went  on  to  say 
that,  on  account  of  the  pressure  of  work,  he 
offered  to  take  back  into  the  mills  such  opera- 
tives as,  after  a  day's  idleness  and  a  night's 
calm  reflection,  might  decide  to  come  back 
peacefully,  and  accept  the  old  conditions.  The 
circular  closed  by  adding  that  all  returning 
operatives  must  renounce  their  connection  with 
the  new  Labor  Union,  and  stating  that  the 
Shawsheen  Mills  would  be  immediately  re- 
opened. 

This  letter,  as  might  have  been  expected, 
only  served  to  fan  the  smouldering  embers  of 
discord.  It  was  taken  at  once  to  the  quarters 
of  the  new  Union,  and  angrily  discussed.  A 
stormy  meeting  was  held  that  evening,  and 
scores  of  new  members  were  added  to  the  organ- 
ization, all  unanimously  agreeing,  not  only  to 
keep  away  from  the  mills  themselves,  but  to 
prevent  other  operatives  from  entering  them. 
The  trouble  which  might  have  been  met  at  the 
outset  and  subdued  by  candid  discussion  and  a 
fair  acknowledgment  on  each  side  of  the  claims 
of  the  other,  was  changed  into  a  barricade  of 
danger  between  labor  and  capital  over  which 
a  battle  was  to  be  fought,  involving  money  and 


24  ^atomc  <^1tcpwl,  ^tUxwtt, 

credit  and  losses  on  one  side,  and  daily  bread 
for  two  thousand  people  on  the  other. 

"  Come,"  said  Otis  Greenough,  emerging  from 
his  "  den  "  after  the  committee  had  left  the 
office.  "I  want  you,  Villard,  and  you,  too, 
Burnham,"  he  added,  turning  to  the  other 
superintendent,  "  to  go  with  me  this  evening, 
to  the  owner  of  these  mills,  and  lay  before  her 
the  proceedings  of  the  day,  and  our  reasons  for 
taking  a  firm  stand.  Although,  precious  little 
difference  it  will  make  with  her,  I  imagine,  how 
many  strikes  we  have,  until  her  income  is 
affected!  Will  you  be  so  good  as  to  state, 
Villard,  what  you  are  smiling  at." 

"  I  was  thinking,  sir,  that  it  is  a  queer  state 
of  affairs,  when  a  person  owning  large  and  in- 
fluential mills  like  these,  need  not  know  of  the 
strike  or  be  consulted  with  regard  to  it,  until  it 
is  half  over,"  answered  Villard.  He  had  no 
fear  of  the  agent,  with  whom  he  was  a  favorite, 
in  spite  of  his  seeming  harshness.  "  It  seems 
to  me,  if  I  were  a  young  woman,  with  unlimited 
leisure  and  wealth,  I  should  care  to  know 
something  of  so  tremendous  an  interest  as  the 
Shawsheen  Mills  represent — that  is,  if  I  owned 
them." 


^atomc  ^hcpattt,  |Uformcr.  25 

"  Ha,  ha ! "  laughed  the  agent,  "  that  shows 
how  much  of  a  ladies'  man  you  are,  John. 
Much  you  know  about  the  things  that  interest 
and  amuse  the  young  ladies.  By  Jove!  I 
should  laugh  to  see  the  daughter  o£  Floyd 
Shepard  meddling  with  the  details  of  the  great 
business  he  left  her.  She  could  discuss  French 
and  Italian  literature,  or  the  different  schools 
of  music  and  art,  by  the  hour,  and  fairly  inun- 
date you  with  a  flood  of  learning ;  but  when  it 
comes  to  mills — why,  she  don't  know  a  loom 
from  a  spinning-jenny — and  don't  want  to. 
I'm  only  going  up  there  as  a  matter  of  form. 
As  for  advice,  she  knows  I  wouldn't  take  it, 
even  if  she  has  any  to  offer.  But  courtesy — 
proper  courtesy,"  and  Otis  Greenough  drew 
himself  up  to  his  fullest  height,  "  and  the  respect 
we  owe  her  as  the  owner  of  this  property,  demand 
that  we  go  there  this  evening.  I  wiU  call  for 
you  in  my  carriage  at  half-past  seven." 

And,  so  saying,  he  left  the  office. 

"  I  reckon  the  old  man  is  about  right,"  said 
Burnham,  when  they  were  alone.  "  Miss 
Shepard  knows  no  more  about  the  practical 
affairs  of  her  mill,  than  that  little  white  kitten 
over  there  does.     She'll  meet  us  with  a  listless, 


26  ^^hmt  ^\xt\mxA,  ^tUxmtv, 

half-bored  air,  pretending  to  listen  to  the  state- 
ments of  our  chief,  and  all  the  time  be  wishing 
us  at  the  antipodes." 

"  Do  you  know,"  interrupted  John  Villard, 
locking  the  door  to  the  office  as  they  left  it 
together,  "I've  very  little  patience  with 
women  of  that  sort.  Think,  with  her  youth 
and  health  and  money,  what  a  directing, 
reformino;  force  in  brinoinjr  tooether  the  con- 
flicting  interests  of  labor  and  capital  she  might 
be  !  Great  Heavens  !  I  wish  I  had  her  oppor- 
tunity.    I'd  make  something  of  it." 

"  Oh,  you  are  too  Utopian,"  replied  Burnham. 
"  It  is  fortunate  she  isn't  that  kind.  We 
should  be  overwhelmed  with  Schemes  for  the 
Amelioration  of  the  Condition  of  This,  That, 
and  The  Other  Thing,  until  there  would  be 
nothing  left  but  bankruptcy  for  all  of  us.  No. 
I  Avant  no  reformers  in  petticoats  at  the  head 
of  the  Shawsheen  Mills.  But  here  I  am  at  my 
street.     Good-bye,  till  evening." 

Salome  Shepard  passed  a  dull  afternoon. 
Although  a  young  woman  of  resources  she 
found  herself  in  no  mood  to  enjoy  any  of  them 
after  lunch.  The  newest  volume  of  essays 
seemed  insufferably  dull,  and  she  turned  for 


^alomc  ^hcparrt,  ^cfovmcr.  27 

relief  to  the  latest  novel ;  but,  in  spite  of  the 
fact  that  this  book  was  talked  about  throughout 
the  country,  she  soon  threw  it  aside  with  a 
wearied  air  and  sat  gazing  into  the  blazing 
hickory  fire. 

Stranoe  !  but  the  red-hot  coals  formed  them- 
selves  into  a  group  against  the  dull  back-log 
like  tlie  groups  of  miserable,  excited  men  and 
women  of  the  morning  against  a  back-ground 
of  rain  and  fog  and  muddy  streets.  It  was  an 
uncomfortable  picture,  and  she  rose  suddenly, 
and,  going  into  the  music-room,  seated  herself 
at  the  piano.  Chopin's  Nocturnes  stood  open 
on  the  rack,  but  she  tossed  them  aside  and 
began  some  stormy  Liszt  music,  breaking  off 
when  half  done  and  going  to  the  window. 

The  rain  had  begun  to  fall  again  and  the 
fog  had  settled  like  a  pall  over  everything 
farther  off  than  the  arched  gateway.  She 
wondered  if  all  those  people  were  still  standing 
in  the  mud  and  rain. 

An  elderly  lady,  with  soft  white  hair  and 
exquisite  laces,  came  in. 

Salome  ran  forward,  pushed  her  aunt's  favor- 
ite chair  into  the  position  she  liked  best,  and 
put  her  into  it. 


28  ^i\\om  Mc\)m\,  '§tiovmtx, 

"  Why  did  you  stop  playing  ?  And  why  did 
you  attempt  that  brilUant  thing?"  said  Mrs. 
Soule.  "  You  are  so  dreadfully  out  of  practice, 
you  know." 

"It  wasn't  that,"  answered  the  younger 
woman  ;  "  I'm  not  in  the  mood  for  playing  any- 
thing. I  doubt  if  I  could  get  through  with 
*  Boundinof  Billows  '  or  the  '  Fifteenth  Amuse- 
ment '  to-day.  Did  you  know,  aunty,  there 
is  a  strike  down  at  the  mills  ?  " 

"A  strike  !  Mercy,  who  has  struck  ?"  re- 
sponded the  elder  in  shocked  tones. 

"Why,  the  operatives,  of  course.  I  don't 
know  why,  or  anything  about  it.  I  have  never 
shown  any  interest  in  the  mills,  "  she  went  on 
eagerly  and  half-apologetically,  "  but  I  should 
like  to  know  what  it  is  all  about — why  they  did 
it — what  they  want,  and  all  that.  I  should 
think  Mr.  Greenough  would  come  up  here." 

"  He  will  come  as  soon  as  he  deems  it 
proper."  Mrs.  Soule's  voice  was  calmness  and 
precision  itself.  "  It  is  not  nice  for  young 
ladies  to  mix  themselves  up  in  such  common 
things." 

"  But,  aunty,"  laughed  Salome,  "  strikes  are 
not  common  things  here.     We  never  had  one 


<faIomc  ^Ucjjatil,  ^cfovmcr.  29 

before.  And  T  am  not  so  very  young  a  lady 
as  to  need  the  same  careful  guardianship  I 
had  when  I  was  sixteen.  I  am  twenty-seven 
years  old." 

"  There  is  no  need  of  saying  so  upon  all 
occasions,  if  you  are,  "  replied  her  aunt  with 
some  asperity.  "  A  strike,  like  all  things  con- 
nected with,  or  originated  by  the  ignorant  la- 
boring class,  is  common  in  the  sense  of  being 
vulgar.  Any  woman,  young  or  old,  brought 
up  as  delicately  and  carefully  as  you  have 
been,  demeans  herself  by  connection  with  such 
things.  You  have  an  agent — a  manly  and 
capable  one  ;  leave  the  settlement  of  such 
thinofs  to  him." 

"  Oh,  I'm  not  going  to  meddle  with  the  strike. 
The  very  suggestion  that  I  would  wish  to  have 
anything  to  do  with  settling  the  difficulty 
makes  me  laugh." 

Salome  rose  and  began  to  pace  the  room. 
"  But  sometimes,  lately,  aunty,  it  has  occurred 
to  me  that  a  young  woman  of  average  talent, 
with  a  ofreat  business  on  her  hands  which  em- 
ploys  two  thousand  people,  may  have  some- 
thin  s"  to  do  in  life  more  than  to  seek  her  own 
selfish  enjoyment — a  pursuit  which,  after  all, 


30  Mome  ^\\t\m\%  3tfmm\ 

is  not  elevating  and  leaves  but  a  restless,  un- 
satisfied spirit  in  its  wake.  I  came  across 
some  of  grandfather's  manuscripts  two  or  three 
weeks  asfo  and  have  been  reading"  them.  He 
wasn't  like  papa.  The  mills  were  a  part  of  his 
very  self.  The  operatives  were  almost  like  so 
many  children  to  him.  I've  read  in  his,  and  in 
other  books,  about  the  mill-girls  of  his  day. 
Girls  whose  working  days  began  at  daylight  in 
winter  and  ended  at  half-past  seven  in  the 
evening  ;  who  had  only  two  dresses  to  their 
backs,  and  those  of  Merrimack  print  5  whose 
profits  for  a  week,  after  their  board  was  paid, 
were  only  two  dollars.  But  girls  who  could 
discuss  Shakespeare,  Dante,  and  Milton  at  their 
looms;  who  read  Locke  and  Abercrombie  and 
Pollock  and  Young  (something  I  can't  do  !  ); 
who  sent  petitions  to  Congress  for  the  abolition 
of  slavery ;  who  helped  build  churches  from 
their  pitiful  savings  ;  who  wrote  essays  and 
poems  and  stories,  even  while  running  their 
looms  ;  who  spent  their  evenings  in  the  study 
of  German  and  French  and  botany  ;  and 
who  went  out,  at  last,  to  become  teachers  and 
mothers  and  missionaries,  and,  above  all,  noble, 
self-sacrificing,  helpful  women.   And  I  tell  you 


^ixlmt  Mipml  ^cfovmcv.  31 

that,   with   all    my    money    and    my  polished 
education,  I  envy  them." 

"  Salome,  really,  you  surprise  me,"  exclaimed 
the  excellent  lady  who  was  listening-  to  her. 
"  Calm  yourself,  my  dear." 

"  Look  at  the  girls  in  this  mill — in  my  grand- 
father's mill  to-day — in  my  mill,"  she  went 
on.  "  Beings  of  bangs  and  bangles  and  cheap 
jewelry,  of  low  aspirations,  and  correspond- 
ingly low  morals  !  They  are  not  to  blame  for 
their  penny-dreadful  lives,  because  they  know 
no  better.  They  dream  of  nothing  higher  than 
their  looms  and  their  face-powder,  and  their 
cheap  satins  and  false  hair — why  should  they  ? 
They  see  rich  and  educated  women  like  us 
wrapped  entirely  in  ourselves,  each  anxious  to 
outshine  the  rest,  and  all  seemingly  lost  in  the 
mad  race  after  fashionable  attire.  They  do 
not  know,  poor  things,  that  we  ever  think  or 
talk  of  higher  subjects.  I  tell  you,  I  feel  that 
I  am,  somehow,  responsible  for  them.  And  yet, 
I  don't  know  how  to  help  them.  My  grand- 
father could,  but  I  can't." 

"I  know  nothing  of  such  things,"  coldly 
replied  her  aunt.  "It  is  not  ladylike  to  fly 
into  a  passion  over  the  fancied  wrongs   of  a 


32  Salome  <f  h^imnt,  ^{ffovmcv. 

lower  order  o£  beings.  I  beg-  that  you  will 
recollect  that  you  are  the  daughter  of  Cora  Le 
Bourdillon  and  Floyd  Shepard." 

"  And  more  than  that/'  Salome  whispered  to 
herself  as  she  sought  the  quiet  of  her  own 
room,  "  I  am  afraid  I  am  the  grand-daughter 
of  Newbern  Shepard." 


^alcmc  ^hcpavrt,  ^cfovmn*.  33 


IV. 


It  was  nearly  eig-ht  o'clock  when  carriage- 
wheels  were  heard  coming-  up  the  graveled 
drive-way,  and  Otis  Greenough  and  his  associ- 
ates were  announced.  Salome  and  her  aunt 
were  sitting  in  the  music-room,  and  came  for- 
ward at  once ;  the  former  with  an  unmistakable 
air  of  eagerness. 

"  Tell  me  about  the  strike,  Mr.  Greenough," 
she  asked,  before  he  had  fairly  seated  himself. 

"  Oh,  then,  you'd  heard  of  it,  eh  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  saw  something  of  it  this  morning,  driving 
through  the  town.  I  could  not  help  knowing 
what  it  was.  But  why  did  they  do  it  ?  What 
do  they  want  ?  " 

"  They  did  it,"  and  Otis  Greenough  sat  up 
with  a  judicial  air,  "because  they  are  rascally 
dogs,  and  do  not  know  when  tliey  are  well  off. 
And  they  want  ? — well, — the  earth — more  pay. 


34  <^atamc  f  Iifpant,  |Ufavmei\ 

shorter  hours,  and  the  Lord  knows  what  be- 
sides." 

"  Well,  and  why  shouldn't  they  have  it  ?  " 

The  question  fell  like  a  bomb  upon  her  sur- 
prised audience. 

"  To  be  sure,  I  know  very  little  of  these 
things,  practically,  although  I  have  taken  the 
prescribed  doses  of  social  economy  in  my  read- 
ings under  Professor  Townsend,"  she  went  on ; 
"  but  it  has  occurred  to  me,  within  a  few  days, 
that  the  laboring  classes  have  very  little  control 
over  their  own  lives,  and  are  not  much  more 
than  slaves  to  us  who  hold  the  reins  of 
power." 

"  Bless  mt  •  "  thought  Otis  Greenough,  star- 
ing at  her.  if  his  office-door  had  suddenly 
spoken,  offering  him  officious  counsel  as  to 
his  method  of  conducting  the  mills,  he  could 
hardly  have  been  more  surprised.  "  Bless  me  ! 
No  Floyd  Shepard  about  her." 

"If  the  operatives  are  poorly  paid,  and  we 
are  making  more  money  than  ever  before  (I 
think  I  understood  you  so  the  other  day?)," 
the  young  woman  was  saying,  "  why  shouldn't 
their  wages  be  raised  ?  It  seems  but  fair,  to 
me." 


^atomc  ^hcjnu'rt,  |tcfovmcv.  35 

"Much  you  know  about  it,  little  girl,"  Mr. 
Greenougli  found  voice  to  say,  addressing  her 
as  he  used  to  in  by-gone  days,  when  she  occa- 
sionally strayed  into  the  mills  and  teased  to  be 
taken  through  them.  "  Much  any  young  lady 
of  the  Avorld  can  know  of  such  matters.  We 
would  not  have  you  turn  from  being  your  own 
charming  self,  and  become  a  learned  blue-stock- 
ing, or  blcomered  reformer ;  but  there  are 
many,  many  reasons  which  come  between  the 
questions  of  profit  and  loss,  and  the  petty  details 
of  operatives'  wages,  which  cannot  be  explained 
to  you  here  and  now.  They  were  contented 
enough  until  some  rascal  or  other,  having 
become  imbued  with  the  spirit  of  these  labor 
unions  starting  up  all  over  the  country,  must 
needs  organize  one  here.  By  Jove  !  I'll  em- 
ploy detectives  and  hunt  out  the  disturbing 
elements  and  shut  them  up.  I  have  offered 
every  mother's  son  a  chance  to  go  back  to  work 
to-morrow  morning,  on  condition  that  he  drops 
this  union  business;  but  I  am  told  to-night 
that  not  one  of  them  will  accept.  Ignorant 
creatures  !  I'll  show  'em  what  it  means  to 
fight  a  rich  and  strong  concern  like  this,  in  the 
vain  hope  of  bringing  us  to  their  terms." 


36  ^'alomc  <^Hci)avt1[,  '^cfovmcv. 

"  Meanwhile,"  it  was  Villard  who  spoke, 
"  we  are  to  go  on  resisting  their  combined 
ignorance  and  impatience,  and  perhaps  worse 
elements,  losing  thousands  of  dollars  in  the 
warfare,  are  we  ?  " 

"  Yes,  rather  than  give  in  one  inch  to  them," 
answered  Mr.  Greenough.  "  This  is  the  first 
organized  strike  and  must  be  made  a  warning 
to  future  disturbers.  It's  those  confounded 
Englishmen  trying  to  .transplant  their  foreign 
ideas  to  American  soil.  If  we  give  in  to  them 
now,  we  establish  a  bad  precedent." 

"  I  must  confess,"  said  Villard,  "  that  I  do 
not  see  it.  I  have  seen  several  strikes,  and 
know  that  generally  both  sides  lose  sight  of 
reason,  and  determine  to  fight  it  out  regardless 
of  cost.  I  am  afraid,  with  the  course  you  pro- 
pose to  adopt,  sir,  that  we  shall  go  on  until  the 
losses  on  our  side  or  the  suffering  and  privation 
on  theirs  will  become  unbearable  ;  and  then 
one  side  or  the  other  will  be  forced  to  yield. 
If  it  should  be  they,  a  smouldering  resentment 
will  be  left,  ready  to  break  out  anew  at 
the  first  convenient  season.  If  we,  they 
will  feel  encouraged  to  try  still  more  arbitrary 
measures   in  the  future.     Or  if  a  comjDromise 


^alamc  .SUcpavrt,  |lrfovm^.  37 

be  effected,  it  will  be  one  that  might  as  well  be 
made  to-morrow." 

"  Yon  talk  well  for  a  yonng  man,"  admitted" 
Mr.  Greenough.  "  How  did  you  come  by  your 
exceedingly  humane  and  sympathetic  views?" 

"  I  began  as  an  employe  myself,"  answered 
Villard,  "  and  I  know  how  they  feel  to  some 
extent.  I  know  what  it  is  to  work  at  the  lowest 
drudgery  of  a  mill,  and  can  imagine  how  it 
must  seem  to  have  no  hope  of  ever  rising  to  a 
higher  position.  Hard,  unremitting  toil,  long 
hours  with  endless  years  of  hopeless  work  in 
prospect,  the  lowest  possible  wages,  a  large  and 
rapidly  increasing  family,  with  perhaps  an  aged 
parent  or  invalid  wife  to  support — I  tell  you 
lots  of  those  fellows  have  all  that  to  bear,  know- 
ing the  utter  impossibility  of  ever  saving  any- 
thing, or  of  raising  their  own  condition.  I  say, 
sir,  looking  at  life  from  their  standpoint,  it's 
mighty  hard." 

"  Well,  well,"  put  in  Mr.  Greenough,  testily, 
"  a  great  many  of  them  Avant  nothing  better. 
They  would  not  know  what  to  do  with  a  better 
chance  for  life,  as  you  call  it,  if  they  had  it." 

"  Simply  put  yourself  in  their  place,  sir," 
said  Villard.     "  What  if  you  were  forty  years 


38  <^atamc  <#1if|ravd,  itcfamcr. 

younger  than  you  are,  and  condemned  to  a  life 
of  toil  at  the  looms,  for  instance,  would  you  not 
claim  the  right  to  combine  with  others  of  like 
occupation  and  interests  and  ask  for  a  better 
chance  ?  These  men  of  ours  have  taken  an 
unreasonable  way  of  asserting  themselves,  but 
I  think  they  are  entitled  to  our  respect,  and 
should  be  dealt  with  as  men.  An  open,  fair 
discussion  of  the  wage  question  or  the  ten-hour 
law  can  result  in  nothing  but  good  for  both 
sides." 

"  You  are  young,"  Mr.  Greenough  replied, 
"  and  believe  everything  in  this  Avorld  can  be 
made  to  run  exactly  as  you  want  it.  When 
you  are  older,  you'll  realize  better  the  indiffer- 
ence and  general  mulishness  of  the  world,  and 
of  operatives  in  particular.  I  do  not  believe  in 
meeting  and  deferring  to  them  as  equals.  They 
are  not  worth  our  efforts,  and  so  long  as  they 
are  under  the  influence  of  hot-headed  devils 
who  pose  as  labor  reformers,  just  so  long  we 
are  going  to  see  trouble." 

"  If  we  were  to  make  a  fair  compromise  with 
them,"  Mr.  Burnham  was  sjDeaking  for  the 
first  time,  "  and  let  them  see  that  we,  as 
humane   employers,   have  a  greater  desire  for 


^i^Um  MmvA,  Itrfamet.  39 

their  interest  than  any  foreigner  can  have, 
wouldn't  it  work  a  reaction  in  our  favor  ?  From 
a  strictly  business  point  of  view,  perhajDs  it 
would  be  money  in  our  pockets." 

"Yes,"  urged  Villard,  "if  we  were  to  show 
ourselves  willing  to  consider  an  intimate  knowl- 
edge of  their  needs  and  thus  prove  ourselves 
their  best  friends,  it  would  be  only  a  case  of 
practical  philanthropy,  and  one  which  would 
raise  our  profits  every  year,  I  believe.  It  is 
only  the  first  step  that  costs,  you  know." 

"  I  don't  believe  it,"  stoutly  maintained  the 
agent.  "  In  my  day  there  has  been  very  little 
talk  of  manasrers  and  owners  deferring  to  their 
help.  I  hire  my  own  operatives  and  reserve  the 
right  to  raise,  or  lower,  their  wages  as  I  please." 

"But,  Mr.  Greenough,"  broke  in  Salome 
eagerly,  "  don't  you  consider  their  circumstances 
at  all  ?  Don't  you,  for  instance,  in  a  driving 
time,  pay  them  any  higher  wages  than  in  dull 
times  ?  I  think  there  would  be  nothins:  but 
fairness  in  that." 

"My  dear  young  lady,"  was  the  answer  in 
patronizing  tones,  "don't  bother  your  brains 
with  such  things.  You  cannot  understand 
them.     Why  try  ?  " 


40  ^al0me  ^fcejjav<l,  Itcfoj-m?)?, 

"Imagine  our  Salome  posing  as  a  philan- 
thropist or  a  social  economist,"  interrupted  Mrs. 
Soule's  mellifluous  tones.  "  We  had  a  great 
laugh  over  the  idea  this  afternoon." 

Salome  bit  her  lip  and  said  nothing. 

"  I  think,"  continued  her  aunt  in  the  same 
smooth  accents,  "  that  we  have  talked  business 
long  enough.  I  am  sure,  Mr.  Greenough,  that 
Salome  is,  and  will  be  perfectly  satisfied  with 
any  course  you  may  see  fit  to  adopt  with 
regard  to  the  strikers.  Women,  you  know, 
ladies  at  least,  have  no  heads  for  business,  and 
we,  certainly,"  with  an  indescribable  turn  of 
voice  on  the  "  we  " — "we,  certainly,  have  had 
no  trainino;  to  fit  us  for  reformers.  And  now 
shall  we  not  have  some  music  ?  Salome,  dear, 
will  you  play  that  delightful  little  suite  of 
Moscowzki's  that  I  like  so  well  ?  " 

The  young  woman  rose  and,  going  to  the 
piano,  did  as  she  was  bid,  although  some- 
what mechanically.  Then  Mr.  Greenough 
proposed  a  song  from  Mr.  Burnham,  who  pos- 
sessed a  fine  baritone  voice,  and  the  evening 
wore  away  with  music  and  light  conversa- 
tion. 

When  the  three  men  went  home,  the  elder 


$ixUm  ^\\(\m\%  If  farmer.  41 

was  in  fine  spirits,  in  spite  o£  having  been 
shocked  and  discomfited  to  an  iinnsual  deo-ree, 
by  the  unexpected  disclosure  of  views  which  he 
termed  "  strong-minded  "  on  the  part  of  the 
fair  owner  of  the  Shawslieen  Mills. 

"  If  there  should  come  to  be  hard  times  and 
perhaps  destitution  among  the  operatives  before 
this  difficulty  is  settled,"  Salome  said  to  John 
Villard  as  he  was  preparing  to  go,  "  such  des- 
titution as  we  read  of  in  foreign  countries  in 
times  of  labor  disturbances,  I  hope  you  will 
let  me  do  somethino-  to  relieve  it.  Strano-e  as 
it  may  seem,  I  have  a  much  better  idea  of 
such  a  state  of  affairs  there  than  here — anion o- 
my  own  mills." 

"  There  will  be  no  such  state  of  affairs,  I 
trust,"  was  his  reply,  "  as  is  pictured  in  Eng- 
lish novels." 

"You  have  guessed  accurately  as  to  the 
sources    of   my    information,"   she  laughed. 

He  smiled  too,  and  continued, 

"  Meanwhile,  if  we  pursue  the  jDolicy  pro- 
posed," and  he  glanced  at  Mr.  Greenough,  who 
was  making  gallant  speeches  to  Mrs.  Soule, 
"  you  might  keep  a  watchful  eye  on  the  help. 
You  could  tell,  you  know,  by  the  women,  if  they 


42  ^atome  <^1tr|rard,  '^tUtmtv, 

came  to  absolute  distress.  Of  course,  there  is  no 
knowing  how  long  this  thing  may  last." 

"  Me  !  You  look  to  me  for  such  a  thing,"  and 
it  was  hard  to  tell  whether  her  tone  was  amused 
or  sarcastic  only.  "  Why,  Mr.  Villard,  I  do 
not  know  one  of  the  operatives  in  the  mills — 
not  even  by  sight.  If  I  were  to  meet  them  on 
the  main  thoroughfare  to-morrow  I  should 
not  know  them  from  other  women  of  their 
class." 

John  Villard  raised  his  eyebrows  and  turned 
to  put  on  his  coat  without  another  word.  The 
situation  was  incomprehensible  to  him. 

Salome  saw  this,  and  winced  under  it.  She 
made  no  further  attempt  at  conversation,  but 
said  good-night  graciously  to  Mr.  Greenough 
and  the  older  superintendent,  recognizing 
Villard' s  parting  nod  at  the  door. 

"^  There,"  said  her  aunt,  as  they  went  back 
into  the  firelight,  "  I  hope  they  won't  feel  it 
necessary  to  come  here  and  consult  with  us 
again  so  long  as  the  strike  is  on.  As  though 
you  knew  or  cared  anything  for  it,  my  dear ! 
But,  of  course,  they  had  to  come  as  a  matter 
of  form.  Any  way,  I'm  glad  it  is  over.  Play 
something." 


^atomc  <^hcimvrt,  licfuvmfv.  43 

Salome  complied,  playing-  the  first  thing 
which  came  to  her  mind — the  o^^ening  bars  of 
the  Sonata  Pathetique. 

"I  wish,"  she  said  to  herself  as  she  disrobed 
for  the  night,  "  that  I  were  a  capable  woman 
of  affairs — and  that  John  Villard  were  my 
agent." 


44  ^alam*  ^Itcpavrt,  |lcf0vmev. 


V. 


Not  for  a  week  could  enough  new  help  be 
hired  to  even  make  a  show  of  opening  the 
Shawsheen  Mills.  Labor  Unions  were  a  com- 
paratively new  thing  in  this  country,  and  were 
not  so  thoroughly  organized  as  now  ;  and  a 
few  of  the  old  operatives,  rather  than  starve, 
were  glad  to  go  back  into  the  mills  on  any 
condition.  But  the  great  majority  refused 
with  indignation  to  give  up  their  claims,  and 
proceeded  to  "  make  things  hot,"  as  they 
expressed  it,  for  the  "scabs"  and  "mud- 
sills." 

Work  was  attempted  in  the  mills,  although 
many  looms  stood  silent  and  the  spinning-mules 
were  entirely  deserted.  Thread  for  warp  was 
procured  from  a  neighboring  city  at  no  small 
expense  and  the  mills  were  run  at  a  loss,  to 
prove  the   agent's   assertion  that    "  he  would 


Momt  ^\\(\mx%  fstfamcv,  45 

show  them  who  was  manager  of  the  Shawsheen 
MiUs." 

This  sort  o£  thing  was  kept  up  four  days. 
On  the  fifth  morning,  the  operatives  went  as 
usual  to  the  mill,  but  the  machinery,  after  a 
few  insufficient  groans,  gave  up  in  despair  and 
settled  into  utter  quiet. 
What  was  the  matter  ? 

There  was  a  great  hurrying  to  and  fro,  and 
a  close  examination  of  belts  and  machinery. 
Word  was  soon  brought  up  from  the  basement. 
The  engines  had  been  tampered  with  ;  on  each 
of  them  the  belts  had  been  cut.  The  jocu- 
larly inchned  said  the  "engines  had  joined 
the  Union;"  —  while  everybody  wondered 
what  effect  this  stroke  would  have  on  the  agent. 
The  premises  were  examined  and  the  night- 
watchman  questioned.  Evidently  the  deed  had 
been  done  by  some  one  familiar  with  the  place, 
but  there  was  not  the  slightest  clue.  He  had 
done  well  his  work,  and  the  mills  were  stopped 
for  repairs. 

Otis  Greenough  blustered  about  and  cursed 
the  whole  business ;  but  he  was  farther  than 
ever  from  a  compromise,  declaring  that  he 
would  yet  beat  them  with  their  own  weapons. 


46  ^alffmc  ^hcpttl,  %etaxmtx. 

The  mo-lit-watcli  was  doubled  and  the  mills 
were  opened  again  the  next  day.  But  the  em- 
ployers were  fighting  a  desperate  party  and  little 
calculated  their  strength.  The  man  who  had 
succeeded  so  well  in  his  first  attempt  to  stop  the 
mills  risked  himself  again ;  and  on  the  second 
morning  the  machinery  again  refused  to  start. 
This  time  a  small  wheel  had  been  removed 
from  each  engine  and  carried  away.  The 
water-wheel  had  long  been  in  partial  disuse  and 
could  not  be  trusted  without  the  engines. 
Hence,  there  was  nothing  to  be  done  but  to  stop 
again  for  repairs.  This  time  it  was  a  week 
before  the  eng-ines  were  in  runninsf  order. 
And  yet,  not  a  word  passed  between  the  agent 
and  the  strikers. 

The  niofht-watch  were  discharg-ed  and  new 
ones  engaged.  A  special  police  was  secured  to 
patrol  the  mill-yard,  and  when  the  mills  were 
again  opened,  it  was  with  the  avowed  determina- 
tion to  keep  them  going  in  spite  of  every 
earthly  power. 

The  next  morning,  notwithstanding  the 
positive  assertions  of  police  and  night-watch 
that  no  one  had  been  near  the  mills,  every 
band  connecting  the  looms  to  the  machinery 


^al0mc  ^hcpavd,  ^cfoi'mcv,  47 

above  was  cut  in  half  a  dozen  places.  Then 
the  superstitious  operatives  whispered  among- 
themselves  that  unseen  agencies  were  linked 
with  the  Union,  and  that  the  strikers  must 
succeed  in  the  end;  and  many  o£  the  faint- 
hearted Avent  over  to  the  new  labor  party. 

"  It  is  of  no  use  trying  to  run  the  mills  in  this 
way,"  said  Mr.  Burnham.  "  We  have  already 
lost  several  thousand  dollars.  We  must  com- 
promise." 

"  Never,"  said  Mr.  Greenough.  "  The  terms 
of  Floyd  Shepard's  will  grant  me  absolute 
power  here,  and  so  long  as  I  live,  it  shall  never 
be  said  that  an  educated,  trained  and  level- 
headed business-man  was  overcome  by  a  lot 
of  ignorant  bullies  and  agitators.  These  Labor 
Unions  all  over  the  State  need  an  example. 
There  is  money  enough  in  the  mill  treasury  to 
fight  them  until  they  starve  themselves  out. 
No  other  mill  or  corporation  about  here  will 
hire  them,  and  it  is  only  a  matter  of  weeks 
or  months  Avhen  absolute  poverty  forces  them 
to  yield.  Not  one  inch  will  I  give  in  to  them. 
They  shall  come  back  as  beggars,  glad  to 
accept  work  at  even  lower  wages  than  they 
have  ever  had.     I'll  teach  them  a  lesson." 


48  ^'alome  ^'JwiJavtt,  '^cfovmtv, 

Geoffrey  Biirnham  turned  away  full  of  anger 
that  a  flourishing  business  should  be  destroyed 
by  one  man's  obstinacy.  John  Villard  went 
back  to  the  silent  looms,  full  of  righteous 
indignation,  not  only  at  the  total  disregard  of 
practical  business  interests,  but  at  the  want  of 
humanity  and  philanthropy  and  Christian  char- 
ity, which  by  his  subordinate  position  he  must 
seem  to  countenance. 

Weeks  lengthened  themselves  into  months, 
and  still  the  Shawsheen  Mills  were  closed. 

Salome  Shepard,  after  spending  the  holiday 
season  with  friends  in  New  York,  came  home, 
satiated  with  social  success,  and  a  little  tired  of 
the  endless  pursuit  of  pleasure.  Still  the  mills 
lay  idle  and  Otis  Greenough  refused  to  talk  any 
more  with  her  on  the  subject  of  the  strike. 
And  the  terms  of  her  father's  will  held  her 
powerless,  even  had  she  chosen  to  exercise  her 
authority. 

But  she  chafed  under  the  knowledge  that 
two  thousand  people,  who  were  in  a  sense  de- 
pendent upon  her  for  their  daily  bread,  were 
out  of  work  in  the  midst  of  a  hard  winter. 

One  day  she  went  to  walk  down  among  the 
people  who  were  suffering,  now,  for  a  principle. 


^abmc  ^hcpavrt,  ^cfovmcv.  49 

She  was  amazed  at  the  gaunt,  hungry  look 
of  the  old  men ;  and  self -accused  at  the 
pinched  and  wan  faces  of  the  few  children  who 
played  in  the  narrow  streets.  Unthinking,  she 
had  put  on  a  seal-skin  cloak.  It  was  a  cold 
day,  and  furs,  to  her,  were  only  a  natural 
accompaniment  to  the  frosts  of  winter. 

But  going  down  the  uncared-for  side-walk, 
she  rebuked  herself,  noting  the  single  shawl 
and  calico  dress  of  an  old  woman  who  was 
wearily  making  her  way  a  few  paces  in  front 
of  her.  Presently  the  woman  stopped,  seized 
with  a  paroxysm  of  coughing. 

Salome  came  up  with  her,  and  looked  into 
the  white  face,  which  told  of  hard  times. 

"  Madam,"  she  said,  respectfully,  "  can  I  be 
of  any  assistance  to  you  ?  Shall  I  not  help 
you  home  ?  " 

Her  tone  and  manner  were  exactly  the  same 
she  would  have  used  to  any  of  her  aunt's 
friends.  It  did  not  occur  to  her  to  be  patroniz- 
inof  or  condescendino;. 

The  old  woman  stared  at  her.  She  was  not 
used  to  being  addressed  as  "Madam." 

"  Yes'm,"  she  said,  presently.  "  I  live  up 
to  the  other  end  of  the  street.     If   the  cough 


50  jf  atowc  ^hepvit,  ^ttovmtt, 

wasn't  so  bad,  an'  my  side  didn't  ketch  me 
so  !  But  if  I  can  git  back  to  my  own  chair 
ag  m 

Another  fit  of  coughing  seized  her,  and 
interrupted  the  "  garrulousness  of  uncultured 
old  age."  Salome  waited  until  she  got  breath 
again  and  then  took  her  by  the  arm,  accom- 
modating her  steps  to  the  feebler  ones. 

Here  and  there  a  surprised  face  peered 
curiously  at  her  through  a  dirty  window,  know- 
ing who  she  was,  and  wondering  that  she  con- 
descended to  walk  with  old  Granny  Lancaster. 
Everywhere  a  general  air  of  poverty,  perhaps 
of  actual  hunger,  impressed  this  woman,  who 
had  inherited  the  tumble-down  tenement  houses 
on  each  side. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  said,  "but  do  you 
eat  nourishino;  food  enouofh  ?  Good  beef -steak 
and  roast-beef  would  help  your  cough  more 
than  medicine." 

The  old  woman  laughed,  a  grating,  cackling 
laugh. 

"  Beef-steak  and  roast-beef  ain't  for  the  likes 
o'  me,"  she  said.  "  Meat  of  any  kind  ain't  for 
us  in  times  o'  strikes.  May  the  Lord  above 
send  us  oatmeal   enough  to   keep  us  through 


^alomc  ^^Itcpavd,  ^cfovmcv.  51 

till  the  mills  open  ag'iii  is  all  I  ask.  Here's  my 
house.     Much  'bleegecl,  lady." 

Salome  wanted  to  go  inside  the  rickety  old 
door  and  follow  the  woman  up  the  dirty  stair- 
way, but  she  did  not  say  so,  and  the  old  woman 
hobbled  up  the  steps  without  asking  her  in. 

Salome  felt  impulsively  in'  her  pocket,  and 
drawing-  out  her  porte-monnaie,  emptied  its 
contents  into  the  dirty,  emaciated  palm  of 
Granny  Lancaster.  Then  she  turned  and 
walked  rapidly  back  home. 

The  next  day  Otis  Greenough  called  on  her. 

"My  dear,"  he  said,  after  an  hour  or  two 
passed  in  desultory  conversation,  "  may  I  beg 
that  you  will  keep  away  from  the  operatives  ? 
ImpuLive  and  injudicious  charity  does  them 
more  harm  than  anything  else.  No  doubt  the 
part  of  Lady  Bountiful  seems  a  pleasant  and 
desirable  one,  but,  just  now,  you  are  not  fitted 
for  it." 

"What  do  you  mean,  sir?"  asked  she  in  a 
puzzled  tone. 

"  For  instance,"  he  went  on,  "  the  money 
you  gave  a  certain  old  woman  on  the  cor- 
poration yesterday  was  taken  by  her  son-in- 
law  last  night,  and  furnished  huu  an  opportu- 


52  ^nUmt  ^hcimvd,  %(iovmtx. 

nity  for  a  glorious  old  drunk.  I  beg  your 
pardon  for  using  their  phraseology.  He  was 
arrested  before  morning  for  drunkenness  and 
disorderly  conduct." 

"  I  do  not  comprehend,"  she  stammered. 
"  The  woman  said  they  had  no  meat.  She  was 
actually  suffering  for  nourishing  food.  I  gave 
the  money,  impulsively  it  is  true,  but  that 
they  need  not  go  hungry." 

"  N-ow,  you  see,  my  dear,"  he  answered, 
"  just  how  much  encouragement  one  gets  in 
trying  to  do  anything  for  the  laboring  classes. 
They  turn  upon  you  and  use  the  goodness  of 
your  heart  and  your  generous  motives  to  drag 
themselves  down  to  a  lower  depth  of  degra- 
dation. Good-day,  my  dear,  and  don't  be  led 
away  by  your  feelings." 

Salome  stood  looking  after  him,  heart-sick 
and  discouraged.  The  world — her  part  of  it, 
at  least — was  all  wrong,  and  she,  with  plenty 
of  money  and  an  awakening  desire  to  help,  was 
powerless.  She  ordered  the  pony  phaeton 
again  and  started  for  a  drive.  She  obeyed  a 
sudden  impulse  to  go  through  the  factory  pre- 
cincts. There  were  evidences  of  a  suppressed 
excitement.      Knots  of  desperate-looking  men 


^atomc  ^hcpavrt,  ftcfovmcr.  53 

stood  about.  But  they  liuslied  their  voices  as 
she  drew  near,  and  stood  in  sullen  silence  as 
she  passed. 

"  There  is  evidently  something  in  the  wind," 
she  thought,  urging  the  pony  to  quicken  his 
pace. 

She  did  not  know  that  the  committee  from 
the  Labor  Union  had  that  morning  made  a 
third  attempt  to  treat  with  her  agent  and 
failed. 

"  No  compromise,"  was  still  his  watchword. 

"  I'll  send  for  Marion  Shaw,"  she  said  to 
herself,  on  her  way  home  an  hour  later.  "  She 
is  a  practical,  sensible,  business-like  woman. 
Perhaps  she  will  know  of  some  way  to  help  me 
to  help  others.      And  she  needs  rest." 

This  idea  so  inspired  her  that  she  arrived 
home  quite  elated,  and  stated  her  plan  to  Mrs. 
Soule  at  dinner-tune  with  much  animation. 

But  later  in  the  evening,  the  groups  of  men 
she  had  seen  on  "  the  corporation  "  came  back 
to  her  mind  and  caused  her  a  certain  feeling  of 
uneasiness.  What  had  they  been  talking  about 
so  excitedly  as  she  drew  near? 

It  was  one  of  those  suddenly  warm  nights 
in  January  that  succeed,  in  our  fickle  climate. 


64  <f  alome  J'hfpant,  %tiovn\tx, 

a  bitter  cold  day,  and  Salome  felt  an  unaccount- 
able desire  to  be  in  the  open  air.  She  threw 
on  a  warm  wrap  and  hood,  and  saying  nothing, 
went  out  on  the  piazza,  and  crossed  the  lawn 
to  a  favorite  walk  of  hers  in  summer — a  path 
under  a  long  group  of  fir-trees  down  by  the 
street  at  the  back  of  the  house. 

After  a  few  turns,  she  heard  a  peculiar 
whistle  which  was  answered  by  another. 

She  withdrew  still  more  into  the  shadow  and 
waited.     Presently  two  men  met. 

"Well,  what's  the  news?"  eagerly  asked 
one. 

"  Sh — sh  !  not  so  loud,"  replied  the  other. 
"  It's  all  right,  and  better  than  we  expected." 

"Why — how  better?  "  asked  the  first. 

They  spoke  lower,  so  that  Salome  could 
scarcely  catch  the  tones. 

"  Because,"  the  first  was  saying,  "  the  old 
man  himself  has  gone  down  to  the  mill." 

"  Whe— e— w  !  " 

"  Yes.  What  on  earth  possessed  him  ?  But 
then  that's  none  of  our  affairs.  If  he  wants  to 
run  the  risk  of  losing  his  life — that's  his 
business,  not  mine." 

"  Well,  but,"  and  the  first  voice  had  a  timid 


<f  alome  <^Hci)avtt,  ^cfarmcv.  55 

note,  "  that's  going  too  far — we  were  only  to 
blow  up  the  mill — not  to  kill  anybody." 

"  Can't  help  that.  Fifteen  minutes  more, 
if  everything  works  well,  and  old  man  Green- 
ougli's  day  is  over.  Jim's  just  about  light- 
ing the  fuse,  I  reckon,  now.  It's  an  awful 
long  one,  but  the  fire'U  creep  round  there  in 
time." 

"  What  about  the  police  ?  " 

"  He's  all  right.     We've  fixed  him." 

The  voices  grew  fainter  and  ceased  altogether, 
only  the  dull  sound  of  the  men's  footsteps 
reaching  her  as  they  passed  down  the  hill  away 
from  the  sfrounds. 

Salome  stood  an  instant,  rooted  to  the  spot. 
What  was  this  horrible  thing  she  had  heard  ? 

The  factory  to  be  blown  up  ? 

She  must  go  for  help. 

And  Mr.  Greenough  down  there,  risking  his 
life? 

No.     There  was  no  time  to  get  help. 

"  Fifteen  minutes  more,  if  everything  works 
well,  and  old  man  Greenough's  day  is  over." 

The  whole  plot  flashed  across  her  bewildered 
brain.  She  dashed  through  the  back-gate  and 
down  the  deserted  street  towards  the  mills.     It 


56  .^atumc  (f hfpavd,  "^tfavrnv. 

was  a  ten  minutes'  walk  across  that  way,  but  slie 
ran, — flew, — tore  down  the  lonely  road  in  less 
than  half  that  time. 

Otis  Greenough  might  be  an  unreasonable, 
hot-headed,  obstinate  agent,  but  he  was  her 
father's  friend  and  had  loved  and  petted  her 
when  she  was  a  motherless  child. 

What  could  she  do  ?  Raise  an  alarm  ?  Call 
for  help?     Rouse  everybody? 

But  the  fuse  was  already  lighted. 

Where  was  it  ? 

Under  the  office  window  most  likely,  since 
they  knew  that  the  old  agent  was  in  there. 

She  came  in  sight  of  that  window.  There 
was  a  dim  light  there.  All  else  was  dark. 
The  south  wind  moaned  dismally. 

She  hurried  faster  and  came  nearer  the  office 
window.  Under  it  was  another  window  with  a 
broken  pane,  from  which  hung  something  she 
instantly  divined  as  the  fuse. 

Yes.  A  fiery  spark  crept  closer  and  closer 
to  the  wall. 

By  the  time  she  reached  the  window  it  was 
out  of  her  reach. 

Oh,  God  !  could  she  do  nothing  ? 

She  had  been  sewing  on  some  dainty  trifle 


^nlomt  Mt\m\%  '^tfovmtw  57 

earlier  in  the  evening,  and  a  paii-  of  small 
scissors  still  hung  at  her  waist. 

Closer  drew  the  spark  of  fire  to  the  broken 
window  pane,  whence  it  would  disappear  to  work 
its  fearful  errand.  It  seemed  to  twinkle  and 
mock  at  her  in  fiendish  delight.  She  grasped 
the  jutting  window-frame  and  jumped  upon  the 
broad  sill. 

Thank  God,  she  had  it  at  last.  One  snip  of 
her  scissors,  and  the  spark  of  fire  dropped  harm- 
lessly to  the  ground.  She  turned  slightly  to 
step  off  the  window-ledge.  Her  foot  slipped 
and  she  fell,  a  white,  faint  heap  upon  the 
ground. 


58  (^attrmc  ^Hepavil,  ^ttaxmcx. 


VI. 


When  she  opened  her  eyes  again,  not  only 
Otis  Greenough  but  John  Villard  and  an  of&ce- 
boy  were  bending  anxiously  over  her. 

"  My  dear  girl,"  the  agent  was  saying,  "  bless 
me,  my  dear,  what  is  it  ?  How  came  you  here 
and  who  has  harmed  you  ?  " 

"  Don't  be  alarmed,  sir,"  was  her  reply,  as 
she  got  on  her  feet ;  and  then,  somewhat 
excitedly,  she  told  the  events  of  the  last  fifteen 
or  twenty  minutes,  interrupted,  every  other 
sentence,  by  such  ejaculations  as,  "  Great  Scott," 
"  Bless  me,"  "  The  rascals,"  "  Confound  them," 
from  the  elderly  man,  while  the  younger  one 
listened  in  silent  amazement. 

Rapid  search  was  made  and  the  night-watch 
was  found  sleeping,  in  a  stupor  which  was  evi- 
dently the  work  of  a  drug ;  while  the  police 
were,  as  usual,  nowhere  to  be  found. 


^at0me  ^licpavd,  ^cfovmcv.  59 

Salome  was  taken  into  the  office — not  with- 
out inward  trembling,  as  she  feared  further 
evidences  of  the  miscreants. 

Mr.  Villard  soon  reported  two  kegs  of  gun- 
powder and  a  small  dynamite  bomh  in  the 
room  below,  at  the  same  time  congratulating, 
most  heartily,  the  young  woman  who  had  saved 
their  lives  as  well  as  the  mills. 

But  her  courage  was  now  at  a  low  ebb,  and, 
woman-like,  she  shivered  at  the  close  proximity 
of  gunpowder,  and  begged  to  be   taken  home. 

Mr.  Greenough,  who  had  come  to  realize  the 
danger  to  himself  and  to  the  mills  whicli  his 
obstinacy  had  provoked,  was  also  anxious  to  leave 
the  premises  and  glad  to  accompany  Salome 
home. 

John  Villard,  meanwhile,  attended  to  the 
duty  of  finding  new  watchmen  who  should  be 
rehable, — a  difficult  task.  Against  his  will,  he 
promised  Salome  not  to  sleep  at  the  mills,  as  he 
had  been  doing  since  the  machinery  had  been 
tampered  with. 

Salome  was  nearly  prostrated  when  she 
reached  home,  and  had  but  little  strength  left 
with  which  to  importune  the  agent  to  consent 
to  any  terms  for  a  settlement ;  but  as  the  old 


60  ^ixUmt  ^\\t\mvA,  %timmv. 

man  was,  for  once,  thoroughly  frightened,  it 
was  not  difficult  to  exact  a  promise  that  he 
would  consider  a  compromise. 

Mrs.  Soule,  when  she  learned  of  Salome's 
intrepidity, — set  forth  as  it  was  by  Mr.  Green- 
ough's  gratitude  and  gallant  appreciation, — was 
greatly  concerned  for  her  niece  and  put  her 
straightway  to  bed,  where,  in  fact,  she  had  sup- 
posed her  to  be  for  the  past  hour,  and  where 
she  wept  over  and  caressed  her  as  she  had  not 
done  since  the  girl  had  left  home  for  boarding- 
school.  And  then,  what  was  far  more  to  the 
purpose,  she  gave  her  a  bath  of  alcohol  and 
ohve  oil,  and  soothed  her  to  sleep. 

Early  the  next  morning  the  agent  of  the 
Shawsheen  Mills  sent  a  messenger  over  to  the 
dingy  room  which  served  as  headquarters  for 
the  Labor  Union,  begging  for  an  interview. 

As  this  was  the  first  overture  of  peace  from 
his  side,  it  was  natural  that  it  should  be  hailed 
with  glee  by  the  officers  of  the  Union.  And 
although,  the  day  before,  the  leaders  of  the 
strike  had  been  closeted  together  in  a  serious 
debate  as  to  how  much  they  should  yield  to 
Capital,  they  now  unanimously  agreed  not  to 
"  weaken"  in  the  smallest  degree. 


As  for  the  agent,  he  had  been  persuaded  to 
yield  every  point  demanded  by  the  strikers,  in- 
sisting only  upon  the  one  condition,  that  the 
Labor  Union  should  be  disbanded. 

The  question  of  ten  hours  he  granted  with- 
out a  murmur.  He  quibbled  a  long  time  over 
the  wage-question,  and  the  subject  of  weekly 
payments,  and  only  on  seeing  the  dogged  deter- 
mination of  the  laborers  did  he  come  to  terms 
on  that.  But  he  very  properly,  and  too 
peremptorily,  refused  to  remove  the  spin- 
ning frames  which  had  formed  one  subject 
of  contention.  And  then  he  proceeded  to 
overthrow  the  good  effects  of  what  conces- 
sions he  had  made,  by  violently  denouncing  all 
labor  unions,  and  vigorously  insisting  that  the 
one  known  as  the  Shawsheen  Labor  Union  be 
immediately  and  forever  disbanded. 

"  Never,"  said  the  foremost  of  the  committee, 
"  will  we  submit  to  so  arbitrary  a  demand.  We 
have  a  perfect  right  to  organize  our  forces  and 
assert  our  claims.  How  can  we — a  band  of 
day-laborers, — dependent  on  capital  for  a  bare 
living,  win  a  single  cause  for  ourselves  without 
combinations  of  this  kind  ?  There  are  scores  of 
questions  which  involve  not  our  welfare  in  one 


62  Salome  ^Itcijavd,  ^tfuvmer. 

way  alone,  but  our  health,  our  wages,  our 
morals,  our  manhood,  which  we,  as  single  in- 
dividuals, can  never  cope  with,  but  which,  as  a 
united  force,  we  can  adjust.  Besides,  in  all 
departments  of  labor,  the  women  and  children 
equal  or  exceed  the  men.  There  are  to-day 
one  hundred  and  seventy-five  thousand  more 
women  working  in  mills  than  there  were  ten 
years  ago ;  and  what  are  they  but  the  weakest 
and  most  dej)endent  of  employes  ?  They  have 
no  strength  to  agitate  ;  they  have  no  power  to 
change  any  existing  order  of  things.  All  they 
can  do  is  to  toil  and  submit.  We  owe  it  to 
them  as  men,  as  husbands,  brothers,  and  sons, 
to  liofhten  their  burdens.  As  free  American 
citizens  we  owe  it  to  ourselves,  to  settle  the 
conditions  of  our  own  lives,  so  far  as  may  be. 
This  can  only  be  done  by  combinations  of  the 
laboring  classes  strong  enough  to  compel  manu- 
facturers to  concede  us  our  rights." 

"  You  are  right  to  a  degree,"  answered  Vil- 
lard,  before  Mr.  Greenough  could  swallow  his 
surprise  at  hearing  such  sentiments  from  one  of 
his  operatives  ;  "  I  believe  there  are  some  rights 
which  you  can  only  secure  by  a  combination  of 
your  forces  as  working-men.     But  when   you 


^alamc  ^Iicpara,  Irformcr.  63 

let  reason  lose  its  sway,  and  passion  take  its 
place  ;  when  you  are  influenced  by  unworthy 
demagogues  and  unbalanced  cranks,  and  seek 
to  effect  by  strikes  and  such  arbitraiy  measures 
what  might  be  better  secured  by  a  more  con- 
ciliatory course,  you  must  not  be  surprised  i£ 
you  do  not  succeed  in  bull-dozing  a  rich  con- 
cern like  this  into  obedience,  and " 

"  And  when,  by  your labor  unions,  you 

sink  so  low  as  to  countenance  incendiarism  and 
murder — ^yes,  sirs — that  is  what  you  attempted 
last  night,  sirs, — you  can't  expect  this  mill  is 
going  to  countenance  them.  I'll  see  you  all 
starve  and  rot  first,"  and  Otis  Greenough's  face 
was  purple  with  anger. 

"  We  have  already  disclaimed  all  knowledge 
in  our  Union,  sir,"  said  one  of  the  committee, 
"  of  last  night's  outrage." 

"  Blast  it,  what  do  I  care  for  that  ?  "  roared 
the  agent,  as  usual,  out  of  temper.  "  Whether 
you  knew  it  or  not,  it  was  done  under  cover  of 
your  strike,  and  your  Union,  and  Avas  one  of  the 

precious  outgrowths   of  it.     Give  up  the 

thing,  I  say — or  there  is  no  compromise  with 
these  mills." 

"  There  is  httle  use  in  prolonging  this  inter- 


64  (Salome  ^Ucpuvtl,  ^cfovrntr. 

view,  I  am  afraid,"  said  the  first  of  the  com- 
mittee, taking  up  his  hat. 

"  Impudent  dogs  !  "  said  Mr.  Greenough,  as 
Villard  tried  to  speak,  anxious  to  put  things  on 
a  more  satisfactory  basis  before  the  meeting 
closed.  "  Let  them  go.  They'll  find  hard 
hoeing  before  they  reach  the  end  of  their  row." 

"  And,  sir,"  retorted  a  fiery-looking  man  who 
had  not  spoken  before,  "  if  it  comes  to  open 
war  you'll  find  us  tough  customers.  We  shall 
fight  it  out  like  men,  even  if  we  starve  like 
beasts." 

And  with  these  words  the  committee  departed, 
leaving  matters  worse  than  ever  before  in  the 
affairs  of  the  Shawsheen  Mills. 

In  vain  did  the  two  superintendents  plead 
and  argue  and  threaten  the  choleric  old  agent. 
His  blood  was  up  and  he  was  a  veritable  charger 
on  the  eve  of  battle.  There  was  no  state  board 
of  arbitration  then,  and  therefore  no  available 
way  of  settling  theu'  difficulties  except  among 
themselves.  And  as  discussion  only  made 
matters  worse,  the  subject  which  was  always 
uppermost  in  these  three  men's  minds  was 
tacitly  dropped.  Every  precaution  was  taken 
to   insure   the   mills  from   the  danger  it  had 


(^alomc  ^hcpavd,  ^Ufovmcv.  65 

escaped  the  night  before,  and  a  detective  was 
obtained  from  Boston  to  hunt  out  the  criminals 
who  had  perpetrated  the  dastardly  act. 

At  noon,  they  Avere  all  surprised  by  a  note 
from  Miss  Shepard.     It  ran  as  follows : 

"  Dear  Mr.  Greenough, 

"As  the  owner  of  the  Shawsheen  Mill  prop- 
erty, I  hereby  appoint  a  meeting  of  all  its 
officers  at  my  house,  to-night.  Please  have 
them  here  at  eight  o'clock. 

"  Pardon  me  for  the  liberty  I  have  seemed  to 
take,  and  believe  me  ever  a  loving  and  respect- 
ful friend, 

"  Salome  Shepard." 

"  Well,  you  hear  that,  boys,"  said  Mr.  Green- 
ough, after  reading  it  aloud.  "  Be  on  hand. 
Tell  the  treasurer  and  cashier  and  head  book- 
keeper. We'll  all  be  there.  The  Lord  only 
knows  what  she  is  up  to  ;  l>ut  if  that  young 
woman  hasn't  got  a  level  head  on  her  shoulders, 
then  I  don't  know  who  has." 

"  I  reckon  you're  right,  sir,"  echoed  Mr. 
Burnham,  Avhile  John  Villard  laughed  in  his 
sleeve    at   the   yomig   woman    wlio    evidently 


66  ^i\\mu  ^\\qmx(lf  ^giiovmtx, 

dreamed  of  settling  a  prolonged  strike. 
"  Why,"  lie  said  to  himself,  "  she  has  never 
known  enough  of  the  practical  side  of  mill-life 
to  recognize  one  of  her  operatives,  and  hardly 
knows  the  different  brands  of  cloth  manufac- 
tured by  them." 

*??  ^  ^  tF  ^ 

Salome  Shepard  had  waked  at  an  early  hour 
that  morning  and  found  herself  unable  to 
sleep  again.  Her  mind  was  alive  with 
gratitude  for  the  part  she  had  been  able  to 
play  the  night  before,  Avith  apprehension  for 
the  future,  and  with  increasing  self-accusation 
for  the  state  of  things  in  the  Shawsheen  Mills, 
both  past  and  present. 

"  Pshaw  !  "  she  said  to  herself  while  dressing, 
true  to  her  habit  of  communinor-  with  her  own 

o 

conscience  in  default  of  a  visible  mentor, 
"  how  can  I  be  blamed  for  the  state  of  things 
here  ?  The  entire  business  of  the  mills  was 
put  out  of  my  hands  by  my  father's  will.  I 
could  have  done  no  differently." 

"  You  could,"  replied  that  sternest  of 
modern  inquisitors — a  New  England  conscience. 
"  It  was  in  your  power  to  see  that  the  moral 
and  physical  condition  of  these  people  was  im- 


proved  and  cultivated.  It  was  in  your  power 
to  give  them  better  homes  and  more  privileges. 
It  was  in  your  power  to  raise  their  standards  of 
life  and  to  create  new  ones.  But  you  have 
ignored  their  very  existence,  and  let  them  live 
a  mean  and  sordid  life  of  unremitting  toil,  in 
order  to  fiunish  you  with  money  to  live  a 
selfish  life  of  luxurious  ease." 

Salome  tied  the  blue  ribbons  to  her  wrapper, 
and  giving  her  crimps  a  last  touch  went  down 
to  breakfast. 

Knowing  she  would  be  opposed,  she  said 
nothing  of  her  plans  for  the  morning  to  her 
aunt,  but  shnply  announced,  after  they  had 
left  the  table,  that  she  was  going  for  a  long 
walk. 

Then  she  went  upstairs  and  put  on  the 
plainest  costume  she  owned  (which,  by  the  way, 
was  a  tailor-made  gown  that  had  cost  her  one 
hundred  and  fifty  dollars),  and  started  for  the 
tenement  houses  where  her  operatives  lived. 

It  did  not  occur  to  her  to  feel  any  fear  ;  nor 
that  the  miscreants  who  had  planned  the  ex- 
plosion for  the  previous  night  might  be  watch- 
ing her  footsteps.  She  felt  it  incumbent  upon 
her  to  see  for  herself  exactly  how  these  peo2)le 


68  ^alomc  ^Ucpuvrt,  |lcfomfv. 

lived,  and  what  they  were  bearing  and  suffer- 
ing in  consequence  of  the  strike. 

In  the  bright  glare  of  the  morning  sun,  the 
tenement  houses  had  never  looked  so  dingy  and 
mean.  They  were  built  in  Newbern  Shepard's 
day,  and  had  received  but  very  few  repairs 
since  that  time.  Although  it  was  cold  January 
weather,  Salome  counted  a  dozen  panes  of 
glass  gone  from  the  first  house,  and  noticed 
that  the  lower  hingfe  to  the  front  door  was 
broken.  It  was  a  two-story  wooden  building 
Avith  four  tenements  of  four  rooms  each. 

She  ascended  the  rickety  steps  and  rapped 
on  the  door.  One  of  the  women  saw  her  from 
a  front  window  and  came  to  the  door,  holding 
it  open  only  so  far  as  to  permit  her  to  see  the 
strange  caller. 

"  Good-morning,"  said  Salome  in  pleasant 
tones. 

"  Good-morning,  miss."  The  politeness  of 
Salome's  manner  thawed  the  other  woman,  and 
the  door  opened  a  little  wider.  "  Will  you 
walk  in  ?  " 

That  was  precisely  what  she  had  come  for, 
and  Salome  stepped  inside  with  alacrity.  She 
found  herself  in  the  sitting-room   and  living- 


^atomc  ^Ucpavrt,  ^Ufovmcv.  69 

room  o£  the  family.  It  was  a  meager  home. 
The  remnant  of  a  faded  oil-cloth  was  on  the 
floor.  The  walls  were  unpapered  and  devoid 
of  any  attempts  at  ornament,  except  one  un- 
framed,  dilapidated  old  lithograph  of  "  The 
Queen  of  the  West," — a  buxom  young  woman 
with  disproportionately  large  black  eyes,  a 
dress  of  bright  scarlet  cut  extremely  decollete, 
and  cheeks  of  a  yet  more  vivid  hue.  A  pine 
table  covered  with  a  stamped  red  cloth  was 
littered  with  cheap,  trashy  story-papers  and 
pamphlets  addressed  "  To  the  Laboring  Men 
of  America."  An  old  lounge,  with  broken 
springs,  and  six  common  wooden  chairs  con- 
stituted the  other  furnisliini>\s  of  the  room. 

Salome's  first  thought  as  she  looked  about 
her  was  : 

"  I  don't  wonder  these  people  get  discon- 
tented and  clamor  for  something  which  seems 
to  them  better." 

But  she  found,  before  the  forenoon  was  over, 
many  houses  that  were  not  so  pleasant  as  this. 
For,  once  inside  these  rooms,  everything  was 
neat  and  clean,  and  the  woman  who  answered 
her  questions  was  civil  if  not  talkative. 

She   found  that  five  people   lived  in   these 


70  Salome  ^Iwparit,  |lcf0vmct. 

four  small  rooms  :  this  woman,  her  two 
daughters,  a  son-m-law,  and  a  grandchild. 
She  also  found  that  the  other  tenements  con- 
tained five,  six,  and  seven  people,  making 
twenty-three  in  all.  There  were  absolutely  no 
sanitary  arrangements,  and  she  discovered  that 
the  sanitation  of  this  tenement  house  district 
consisted  only  of  surface  drainage.  According  to 
the  statements  of  her  hostess,  there  was  nearly 
always  somebody  "  ailing  "  in  these  houses. 

The  first  house  she  went  into  was  a  fair 
sample  of  the  remainder.  A  few  were  slightly 
better,  but  more  were  in  a  worse  condition.  In 
most  instances  she  was  respectfully  received, 
although  at  three  houses  she  was  met  by  un- 
gracious people,  and  received  gruff  replies  to 
her  kindly-put  inquiries. 

Everywhere,  strong,  able-bodied  men  were 
lounging  about  in  enforced  idleness ;  and  one 
of  them,  resenting,  with  true  American  inde- 
pendence, this  intrusion  into  the  sacred  pre- 
cincts of  his  miserable  home,  plainly  intimated 
that  "  they  was  well  enough  off  now,  and  didn't 
want  no  rich  folks  as  was  livin'  on  money  they 
earned,  to  come  pryin'  round  their  houses." 
Finally,  at  the  last  of  the  tenement  houses  she 


5atame  ^hcimva,  |lcfavmcv.  71 

was  met  by  a  surly,  burly  mule-spinner,  who 
gruffly  refused  her  admittance. 

Nothing  daunted,  however,  she  sought  out  a 
boarding-house  for  the  young  women  of  the 
mills.  The  landlady,  recognizing  her,  invited 
her  in  and  willingly  told  her  all  about  the  life 
of  mill-girls,  offering,  at  last,  to  show  her  their 
rooms. 

Salome  gladly  accepted  and  followed  the 
woman  up  bare,  unpainted  stairs  to  the  rooms 
on  the  second  and  third  floors.  These  were 
small  and  perfectly  bare  of  comforts,  almost  of 
necessities.  The  floors  Avere  uncarpeted  and 
guiltless  of  paint,  or  even  of  a  very  recent  appli- 
cation of  soap  and  water.  They  had  no  closets. 
A  common  pine  bedstead — sometimes  two  of 
them — in  each  room,  two  chairs,  in  one  of 
which  stood  a  tin  basin,  while  beside  it  on  the 
floor  stood  a  bucket  of  water,  and  a  small 
bureau,  made  up  the  sum  total  of  the  furniture. 
In  only  one  room  did  Salome  see  any  evidences 
of  a  literary  taste,  and  that,  if  she  had  known 
it,  was  a  cheap  paper,  the  worst  of  the  sensa- 
tional class. 

Salome's  heart  sank  within  her.  She  no 
longer  wondered  that  the  mill-girls  of  to-day 


72  ^atomc  ^hcjjatd,  ^Icfuvmcv. 

were  a  discontented,  ignorant  set,  nor  that 
many  of  them  sank  into  lives  of  degradation. 

"  The  rooms  are  good  enough  for  the  girls," 
said  the  woman,  noticing  the  look  of  disgust 
on  Salome's  tell-tale  face.  "  They  seem  poor 
enough  to  elegant  ladies  like  you.  But  these 
girls  know  no  better.  And  they  are  good 
enough  to  sleep  off  a  drunk  in,"  she  added, 
roughly. 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say,"  asked  her  guest, 
"  that  any  of  your  girls  get  intoxicated  ?  "    . 

"  Intoxicated  ?  I  don't  know  what  else 
you'd  call  it,  when  they  have  to  be  helped  in 
at  eleven  o'clock  Saturday  night,  and  put  to 
bed,  and  don't  get  up  again  until  Monday 
morning." 

Salome  was  sick  with  pity  and  shame  for 
her  sex.  She  no  longer  questioned  whether 
she  had  a  mission  toward  these,  her  people. 

She  went  home  and  wrote  the  note  to  Mr. 
Greenough,  given  in  an  earlier  part  of  this 
chapter. 


^mUmt  ^tie\mxA,  ^Uformcv. 


VII. 

Promptly,  at  the  hour  named,  Otis  Green- 
ough,  accompanied  by  the  other  officers  of  the 
mill,  api^eared  at  the  mansion  of  the  Shepard 
family. 

Tall,  beautiful,  and  always  impressive  in  her 
bearing,  Salome  was  at  her  best  to-night. 
The  fire  of  a  new-born  purpose  was  in  her 
face,  and  a  new  force,  born  of  spiritual  strug- 
gles, stamped  upon  her  brow. 

There  are  people  who  can  look  calmly  upon 
a  sunset,  and  see  nothing  but  a  glare  of  red  and 
yellow  light.  There  are  others  wlio  see  in  it 
a  glorious  picture  witli  matchless  tints  and 
shadows.  There  are  yet  others,  fewer,  indeed, 
tlian  the  rest,  but  who  hold  the  secret  of  God's 
holy  purpose  written  more  or  less  plainly  in 
their  souls ;  who  see  not  only  the  glare  of  red 
and  yellow  light,  whose  brilliant  tints  and  deep 


74  ^alomc  ^'ltf|iat<t,  |Ufovw«v. 

tones  make  an  unrivaled  picture,  but  who  read 
something-  of  the  deeper  meanings  of  the  Great 
Artist ;  Avho  receive  into  their  own  hearts  some 
part  of  the  glowing  light  which  strengthens 
purpose,  and  crystallizes  hopes  and  ideals 
hitherto  dreamy  and  undefined. 

Salome  Shepard  had  stood  at  a  western 
window  at  sunset.  In  the  hush  and  stillness 
of  the  hour,  the  poet-quality  of  her  soul 
had  interpreted  to  her  the  meaning  of  life 
and  the  irreat  fact  of  human  brotherhood. 
And  when  she  finally  drew  the  curtains  on  the 
deepening  night,  she  felt  that  a  sudden  revela- 
tion had  come  to  her — that,  at  last,  her  life 
purpose,  in  the  shape  of  a  sternly  defined  duty, 
stood  revealed. 

''•  Well,"  said  Mr.  Greenough,  after  a  few 
moments  of  aimless  conversation,  for  nobody 
seemed  desirous  of  taking  the  initiative, 
"  what  are  you  going-  to  do  with  us  all  to-night, 
little  girl  ?  Don't  you  think  you  rather  usurp 
the  privileges  of  an  old  man  in  calling  together 
a  meeting  to  discuss  business,  of  which  he  is 
the  legal  head  ?  Come,  give  an  account  of 
yourself  and  your  quixotic  actions." 

"  Oh,  I    beg  that  none   of  you    will  think 


jialumc  <^hqmwt,  |Uformcr.  75 

that,"  And  Salome  looked  around  the  room 
appealingly.  "  I  sunply  wished  that  we  might 
have  a  fair  and  honest  talk.  I  want  every  one 
here  to  express  his  views.  And  I  want  to  ex- 
press mine — for  at  last,  thank  heaven,  I  have 
some." 

"  Getting  strong-minded,  eh  ?  "  retorted  Mr. 
Greenough.  "  Well,  go  on.  I  suppose  you 
want  to  practice  on  us  hefore  taking  a  larger 
field.  Going  to  take  the  suffrage  platform? 
or  build  school-houses  for  the  niggers  ?  Or  do 
you  aspire  to  the  bureau  of  Indian  Affairs  ? 
Which  is  it?" 

"  None  of  them,"  responded  Salome,  inwardly 
resenting  the  untimely  jest,  but  determined 
not  to  show  her  impatience.  "  None  of  them. 
I  propose  to  begin  nearer  home.  I  propose  to 
go  to  work,  earnestly,  and  I  hope  practically, 
to  raise  the  condition,  morally,  mentally  and 
physically,  of  my  own  factory-people." 

"Bravo!"  exclaimed  Villard  and  the  head 
book-keeper. 

"  And  I  have  called  you  here,"  pursued 
Salome,  "  to  ask  each  and  every  one  of  you  to 
be  my  assistant  and  coadjutor.  I  have  not 
been  thinking  of  nothing,  during  the  last  three 


76  M^Umt  ^\\t\mx%  f^(iox\m. 

months.  I  am  a  woman,  comparatively  young, 
and  with  absohitely  no  knowledge  of  the  prac- 
tical side  of  a  working-man's  life.  But  I  have 
been  thinking,  and  my  conclusions  are  these  : 
that  a  strike  is  a  much  more  serious  matter  for 
the  working-people  than  it  is  for  us.  We  act 
as  if  they  go  out  on  a  strike  either  to  annoy  us 
or  to  have  a  good  time.  I  have  been  down 
among  them  —  sought  the  by-ways  and 
hedges,  as  it  were — and  I  tell  you  they 
are  having  anything  but  a  good  time. 
This  strike  is  the  outcome  of  want  and  priva- 
tion, and  it  has  brought  the  people  to  still 
greater  want  and  privation.  I  believe  they  are 
not  a  set  of  noisy  malcontents  on  the  lookout 
for  an  opportunity  to  create  a  disturbance. 
On  the  contrary,  they  see  in  this  course  the 
only  chance  of  bringing  before  the  public  ques- 
tions of  vital  importance  to  them.  They  earn 
their  bread  by  the  sweat  of  their  brow — and 
not  always  good  bread  either, — while  we,  as 
capitalists,  are  hoarding  up  money.  At  the 
most,  they  get  very  little  of  what  their  Avork 
really  yields.  I  desire,  above  all  things,  sir, 
that  you  grant  their  desires  and  no  longer 
require   them   to   givo  up  their  Labor   Union. 


^alomc  ^hcpavd,  ^Ufovmcv.  77 

Capitalists  have  their  Board  of  Trade,  Avhich 
virtually  amounts  to  the  same  thing.  Let  the 
workmen  have  their  one  chance  to  assert  them- 
selves hy  a  comhination  of  their  forces.  And 
let  each  side  show  to  the  other  that  tolerance 
and  Christian  charity  which  each  demands 
from  the  other." 

''  What  about  the  tolerance  and  Christian 
charity  of  the  outrage  they  tried  to  perpetrate 
last  night  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Greenough. 

"  I  do  not  believe  the  Labor  Union  is  re- 
sponsible for  that,"  replied  Salome,  with  a  far- 
seeing  sympathy  in  her  eyes.  "  Unfortunately 
it  Avas  an  outgrowth  of  their  opinions,  passions 
and  prejudices.  But  you  must  confess,  sir, 
that  had  you  met  them  with  the  tolerance 
which  the  growing  spirit  of  the  age  demands, 
there  is  little  likelihood  that  matters  would 
ever  have  reached  the  point  where  such  an 
action  could  have  been  planned.  I  want  this 
strike  ended  on  any  terms.  I  want  to  see  the 
operatives,  every  one  of  them,  at  work  again  at 
fair  wages.  And  then,  God  helping  me,  I  pro- 
pose to  do  something  for  their  elevation — 
something  to  help  them  live  better,  cleaner, 
manly   and    womanly    lives — something  which 


78  <^'at0mc  ^Ivcpuvtl,  llcfovmcv. 

shall  carry  out  my  grandfather's  noble  plans, 
and  help  make  the  factory  system  of  New 
Eng-land  one  of  her  ofrandest  achievements." 

"  Miss  Shepard  is  right,"  said  Mr.  Burnham  : 
"  our  factory,  like  many  another,  has  been  run 
too  long  on  the  system  of  laissez-faire.  I  have 
come  to  believe  in  a  political  economy  which 
insists  upon  the  liveliest  activity  on  the  part  of 
capitalists,  to  put  their  employes  upon  the  best 
possible  footing  as  to  the  material  surround- 
ings of  life  ;  that  they  have  all  the  advantage 
as  to  health,  morals  and  happiness  which  comes 
from  sanitary  regulation  and  practical  educa- 
tion. I  believe  that  only  when  we  adopt  such 
a  political  economy  as  this  shall  we  draw  the 
largest  possible  dividends  from  the  products  of 
a  community  comparatively  free  from  crime, 
intemperance,  poverty  and  vice  of  every  kind." 

"  Yes,"  urged  Villard,  "  each  one  of  us, 
laborer  or  capitalist,  has  duties  to  ]3erform 
which  cannot  be  shirked  or  shifted  to  the 
shoulders  of  Fate — another  name  for  the  theory 
of  laissez-faire.  The  new  political  economy 
will  demand  that  every  one  who,  in  his  or  her 
public  or  private  capacity,  can  do  anything  to 
relieve  misery,  to  combat  evil,  to  redress  wrong. 


^utomc  ^hi-pavrt,  ^Vcfonnci*.  70 

to  assert  the  riglit,  shall  do  so  with  heart  and 
soul." 

"  You  see/'  said  Salome,  delij^hted  that  two 
strong,  tliinking  men  thus  endorsed  and  voiced 
her  sentiments,  "  we  have  been  acting  on  the 
Quaker's  advice  to  his  son  :  ^  Make  money — 
honestly  if  you  can;  but  make  money.'  We 
have  forgotten  that  Christianity  says  :  '  Thou 
shalt  love  thy  neighbor  as  thyself,'  *  Do  unto 
others  as  ye  would  that  men  should  do  unto 
you,'  '  Bear  one  another's  burdens,'  and  ^  Love 
one  another.'  But  we  have  practically  said  : 
^  Love  thyself ;  seek  thine  own  advantage ;  pro- 
mote thine  own  welfare;  put  money  in  thy  purse; 
the  welfare  of  others  is  not  thy  business.'  " 

"I  must  confess,"  answered  Otis  Greenough, 
speaking  slowly  and  huskily,  "  that  I  cannot, 
after  a  life-long  devotion  to  old-fashioned  ideas, 
take  any  stock  in  these  new-fangled,  impracti- 
cable ones.  I  cannot,  at  my  time  of  life,  change 
my  ideas ;  and  neither  can  I  endorse  your  prop- 
osition to  make  a  public  spectacle  of  ourselves 
in  the  future.  Mills  are  run  to  make  money. 
So  long  as  I  hold  the  position  imposed  upon 
me  by  the  late  Floyd  Shepard,  so  long  shall 
I  refuse  to  countenance  extravagance  and  quix- 


80  ^alanw  J^hcpjivrt,  ^Icfovmcv. 

otism.  But  I  am  an  old  man.  No  one  cares 
any  longer  what  I  think.  It  is  the  young 
people  with  no  experience  whose  opinions  count 
nowadays.  I  am  an  old  man  who  has  had  his 
day " 

"  Don't,  I  beg  of  you,  sir,  talk  like  that," 
interrupted  Salome.  "  We  do  value  your 
02)inion  ;  we  do  intend  to  refer  to  your  judg- 
ment ;  we " 

"  What  is  that  ?  "  cried  Mrs.  Soule  in  alarm, 
from  her  seat  near  the  window. 

"  It  is  some  one  throwing  gravel  against  the 
panes,"  said  the  cashier  as  a  second  shower 
came  rattling  against  the  window.  He  parted 
the  curtains  and  looked  out. 

"  The  grounds  are  full  of  men.  We  are 
mobbed,  by  George !  " 

The  old  agent's  blood  was  up  in  a  moment, 
and  regardless  of  the  presence  of  ladies  he 
swore  in  good,  set  terms,  that  the  rascals 
should  be  arrested  and  imprisoned  for  this. 

Then,  unconscious  of  danger,  in  spite   of  the 

attempts  of  Villard  and  the  rest    to    hold  him 

.back,  he  marched,  like   an  old  hero,  boldly  out 

on    to    the    veranda  which  faced    a  crowd    of 

excited  workmen. 


^alomc  ^Ucpavrt,  ^{cfovmcv.  81 

They  had  hekl  a  stormy  meeting*  at  the 
Labor  Union,  and  the  worst  element  among 
them  had  become  desperate,  and  swore  to 
"  bring  the  old  man  to  terms."  They  had  gone 
in  a  body  to  the  mills,  where  they  hoped  to 
find  some  of  their  employers  in  consultation. 
There  they  had  found  that  the  whole  force 
of  their  opponents  had  gone  to  the  great 
Shepard  Mansion.  Nothing  daunted,  they 
turned  their  steps  thither,  and  at  every  street 
corner  were  joined  by  the  element  of  hoodlum- 
ism  which  is  always  scattered  about  over  the 
streets  of  a  large  and  poorly-governed  town. 

Hence  the  mob  that  confronted  the  officers 
of  the  Shawsheen  Mills  held  all  the  elements 
of  danger  and  disturbance. 

When  Otis  Greenough's  bald  head  appeared 
before  them,  the  crowd  set  up  a  yell  of  mingled 
derision  and  defiance. 

"  Give  us  our  rights,  old  Baldv  "  shouted  one 
voice. 

"  Give  us  fair  play  and  fair  wages,"  called 
another,  while  worse  epithets  were  hurled  at 
him,  from  the  roughs  in  the  rear. 

Otis  Greenough's  face  was  purple. 

"  This  is   outrageous  !  "  he  exclaimed  in  hot 
6 


82  ^^tamc  ^^Ucjrawl,  ^(Uvrntv, 

haste.  "  What  right  have  you  to  come  here 
and  defile  an  honest  citizen's  premises  with 
your  wretched,  polhiting  presence  ?  " 

"  Stop  that,  now  !  "  shouted  one  of  the  leaders. 
"  Fair  play  all  round.  If  you  won't  come  to 
us,  we'll  come  to  you,  and  compel  you  to  make 
terms,  and  decent  ones,  with  us.   We  want " 

But  the  crowd  of  street  idlers  who  had  come 
in  search  of  excitement,  and  not  argument,  grew 
restless,  and  broke  in  noisily  ;  and  when  Otis 
Greenough  opened  his  mouth  to  speak  again, 
he  was  struck  squarely  in  the  face  by  a  handful 
of  gravel  and  mud. 

Then  a  sudden  hush  fell  over  the  mob. 

For  what  was  this  unexpected  white  form 
which  appeared  in  the  doorway,  and  advanced 
to  meet  them? 

Salome  was  dressed  in  a  clinging,  white,  soft 
serge,  with  falls  of  fine  lace  at  the  neck  and 
wrists,  and  under  the  dim  light  of  the  piazza- 
lamp,  she  seemed  like  an  angel  of  retribution, 
her  eyes  flaming  reproach,  and  her  hands  raised 
in  deprecation. 

"  Aren't  you  ashamed  of  yourselves  ?  "  she 
burst  forth,  in  ringing  tones.  "  You,  who  call 
yourselves  honest  men,  and  loyal  citizens  !  You 


f  alomc  ^Urpavrt,  ^cfovmcv.  83 

who  come  here  with  a  clami  for  fair  play,  you 
who  coine  here  to  assert  the  right  of  every 
American  to  be  treated  with  respect  by  every 
other  ;  to  insult  and  maltreat  an  old  man  with 
white  hair — a  man  whom,  as  a  long  associate 
in  your  work,  you  should  honor  ?  Do  you 
come  to  my  house  to  call  forth  a  man  who 
was  even  now  listening  to  plans  for  the  im- 
provement of  your  homes  and  lives  and  pros- 
pects, simply  that  you  may  turn  yourselves  into 
a  pack  of  dogs  to  bark  at  him  ?  Go  home. 
Lay  aside  your  prejudices  and  your  low,  un- 
worthy passions,  and  thipk  whether  we  be 
entu'ely  in  the  wrong.  Think  whether  you  are 
showing  yourselves  worthy  of  being  trusted  ? 
Go  home  and  weigh  calmly  your  conduct 
against  that  of  these  officers,  and  decide  for 
yourselves  whether  you  deserve  to  be  met  half- 
way. And  I  give  you  my  Avord  of  honor  as 
owner  of  the  Shawsheen  Mills,  that  when  you 
decide  to  behave  like  men  and  not  like  beasts, 
you  shall  be  treated  as  men.  You  shall  have 
good  places  with  good  pay.  You  shall  find 
that  we  are  willing  to  do  as  much  as — yes, 
more,  than  you  are  willing  to  do  for  us,  and 
that  we  will  meet  you  half-way  in  the  open, 


8^  ^'atcrmc  ^hcinu'tl,  ^Iffovmn*. 

fair  discussion  of  all  points  connected  with  the 
labor  question." 

"  Three  cheers  for  the  lady  !  "  shouted  a 
hoodlum,  who  cared  not  which  side  he  was  on, 
provided  he  could  make  a  noise. 

But  the  cheers  were  stayed,  and  further  de- 
monstration was  choked  in  utterance.  For 
Otis  Green  ough  fell  suddenly  at  the  feet  of 
the  woman  who  stood  there  boldly  championing; 
him  and  her  sense  of  right. 

The  superintendent  carried  him  quickly  within 
and  put  him  on  a  sofa  ;  a  physician  was  hastily 
summoned,  and  in  a  few  words  Villard  dis- 
missed the  mob,  now  hushed  and  awe-stricken. 

But  Otis  Greenough  in  one  moment  had 
passed  beyond  the  disturbances  of  howling 
malcontents,  beyond  the  petty  smallness  of  his 
old-fashioned  and  cramped  ideas,  out  into  that 
world  where  there  is  no  fear  of  anarchy  and 
socialism,  no  disgrace  in  being  a  philanthropist, 
no  bounds  to  the  heart  of  love  for  all  man- 
kind, and  no  limits  to  the  horizon  of  a  larger, 
diviner  life. 


^attfmc  ^kpavtl,  ^Ufonucv.  85 


VIIT. 

Death  is  never  fully  realized  until  he  is  can 
actual  j^resence  ;  and  Otis  Greenougli's  sudden 
demise  before  their  eyes  and  almost  under,  if 
not  by,  their  own  hands,  solemnized  and  terrified 
the  mob,  and  brought  the  strikers  to  a  sense  of 
the  desperate  pass  to  which  they  had  come. 

The  members  of  the  Labor  Union  laid  their 
grievances  aside  for  the  time,  and  paid  every 
mark  of  respect  to  the  old  agent  now  that  he 
had  passed  beyond  the  recognition  of  it.  A 
sudden  fit  of  apoplexy  had  blotted  out  his 
choleric  and  intolerant  behavior,  and  left  only 
the  remembrance  that  he  had  been  their  head 
for  many  years. 

But  when  he  had  been  laid  away  in  the  new 
cemetery  on  Shepard  Hill,  the  smouldering 
embers  of  discord  begfan  aj^ain  to  break  forth 
into  hot  flames  of  prejudice  and  passion. 


86  ^atome  <f  hcpavd,  ^cfoi'mfv. 

Geoffrey  Burnliam  and  John  Villard  were  con- 
sulting together  in  the  mill  office  the  day  after 
the  funeral,  when  the  door  opened  and  the 
owner  of  the  mills  walked  in. 

"  I  have  come,"  she  said,  in  answer  to  their 
ill-concealed  surprise,  "  to  talk  over  the  situa- 
tion of  the  strike.     I  want  the  mills  re-opened." 

"  We  shall  be  only  too  happy  to  comply 
with  your  wishes.  Miss  Shepard,"  said  Burn- 
ham,  placing  a  chair  in  a  comfortable  light  for 
her.     "  Upon  what  terms  do  you  propose  it  ?  " 

"  I  want  to  compromise,"  she  answered, 
"  and  give  them  a  better  chance  than  they  have 
ever  had.  It  may  take  us  some  time  to  decide 
on  the  exact  terms.  Would  it  be  better,  do  you 
think," — she  unconsciously  turned  to  Villard — 
"  to  take  them  back  on  the  old  terms,  re-instate 
them  precisely  as  they  were,  and  then  go 
on  and  make  our  chanoes  ?  " 

"  That  would  hardly  do,"  he  replied.  "  Ex- 
perience has  proved  them  very  jealous  of  new 
methods,  and  unwilling  to  consent  to  untried 
theories.  If  we  yield  everything  they  demand 
now,  we  shall  establish  a  bad  precedent ;  eh, 
Burnham  ?  " 

"  Decidedly,  and  we  shall  meet  with  opposi- 


^nlamt  ^hepanl,  Itcfovmcv.  87 

tion  if  we  undertake  any  changes.  If  there  is 
to  be  a  remodeHng  of  the  old  system,  it  had 
better  come  now." 

"  There  must  be  a  remodeHng-,  it  seems  to 
me,"  urged  Salome.  "  Dear  Mr.  Greenough 
acted  wisely,  so  far  as  he  could,  no  doubt ;  but 
I  feel  that  the  time  is  come  to  make  decided 
changes  here.  Perhaps  I  am  not  very  clear  in 
regard  to  them,  even  in  my  own  mind.  But  I 
have  some  idea  of  what  I  want,  and  I  shall  be 
glad  to  have  you  both  state  your  convictions 
and  objections,  if  3'OU  have  them,  relating  to 
everything  I  propose." 

"  It  will  be  no  light  matter,"  said  Burnham, 
"  to  select  a  plan  and  perfect  it  at  once.  It 
must  be  a  work   of  time   and  much  thouo-lit. 

o 

Still,  what  is  your  idea  ?  " 

"  I  want  to  put  the  relations  between  us  and 
the  employes,"  Salome  went  on,  "  on  a  better 
footing — an  ethical  basis,  if  you  like  the  term. 
We  must  combine  the  question  '  Will  it  pay  ? ' 
with  a  higher  one,  '  Is  it  right  ?  '  " 

The  two  men  looked  at  each  other.  Burnham 
bit  his  lip. 

"  I  do  not  propose  to  promise  the  people  an 
era  of  absolute  prosperity  and  uninterrupted 


88  Mmt  Mt\fml  Witimm, 

progress,  and  let  them  take  it  as  a  blind  destiny 
without  exertion  or  sacrifice  or  patriotism  on 
their  part.  I  want  to  teach  them  to  be  healthy, 
intelligent,  and  virtuous  citizens,  and  to  expect 
from  us  the  treatment  such  citizens  deserve. 
I  believe  that  such  a  course  is  for  the  pecuniary 
interests  of  the  mill,  as  well  as  for  theirs.  I 
have  heard  enough  of  the  conflicting  interests 
of  labor  and  capital ;  and  on  the  other  hand  I 
do  not  believe  in  the  twaddle  that  proclaims 
them  one.  I  believe  they  are  reciprocal, 
and  that  we  must  take  that  idea  as  funda- 
mental." 

"You  propose  a  radical  change,  I  fear." 
Geoffrey  Burnham's  tone  held  a  new  respect 
for  this  woman  whom  he  had  believed  wrapped 
up  in  the  toils  of  worldly  and  shallow  aims. 

"  Yes,  I  may  as  well  own  it ;  I  do,"  assented 
Salome.  "  Among  my  grandfather's  manu- 
scripts, I  came  across,  the  other  day,  these 
sentences  :  ^I  would  like  to  prove  my  luminous 
ideal  of  what  a  superintendent  may  be  among 
his  people.  I  would  like  to  live  long  enough 
to  show  the  world  that  the  spirit  of  the  Cru- 
cified may  rule  in  a  cotton-mill  as  fully  as  in 
the  life  of  a  saint.'     That  sentence,  gentlemen. 


^iitomc  .^hcpavrt,  ^{cfovmcr.  89 

must  speak  for  me.  In  those  words  lies  the 
germ  of  my  plan  of  action." 

Silence  followed  her.  Geoffrey  Burnham 
told  himself  that  a  new  era  must  be  dawning, — 
the  era  foreshadowing  the  millennium,  since  she 
who  held  the  power  could  so  bravely  avow  her 
intentions  to  make  the  Shawsheen  Mills  an 
experiment  in  what  he  called  Christian  social- 
ism. But  John  Villard,  after  a  moment,  rose 
and  extended  his  hand  to  Salome. 

"  I  pledge  my  hearty  co-operation,"  he  said, 
"  and  thank  God  for  the  opportunity  to  prove 
what  a  cotton-mill  may  become  by  the  new 
Christian  political  economy." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Salome.  "  And  now 
let  us  see  just  what  the  strikers  demand,  and 
how  far  we  can  grant  their  wishes." 

John  Villard  j)roduced  the  paper  which  had 
been  presented  on  the  first  day  of  the  strike, 
and  placed  it  in  Salome's  hands.  It  was  the 
first  time  she  had  seen  it.  She  read  it  through 
very  carefully. 

"  It  seems  to  me  there  was  no  need  of  these 
long  months  of  idleness,"  she  commented, 
when  she  had  finished  the  paper.  "  Now,  let 
us    see.     First,    they   demand    recognition,  as 


90  <^'alomc  ^hepavd,  ^cf0tntfv. 

the  Sliawsheen  Labor  Union.  I  think  we  may 
yield  that  point,  safely  enoug-h." 

"  Without  modification  ?  "  inquired  Geoffrey 
Burnham. 

"  Why  not  ?  " 

"  They  will  take  advantage  of  us.  They 
will  dictate  and  become  arbitrary.  The  Labor 
Union  grows  by  what  it  feeds  on.  It  will  be- 
come an  elephant  on  our  hands." 

"  Not  if  they  have  something  better  to  take 
its  place,"  said  Salome.  "  I  am  fully  persuaded 
that  they  will  meet  us  half-way,  if  we  give  them 
a  union  that  is  better  than  theirs.  Let  their 
union  alone  for  the  present." 

"  I  am  with  you  there,"  said  Villard.  "  It 
devolves  upon  us  to  change  its  character  into 
something  that  shall  be,  at  least,  as  helpful  as 
they  want  to  make  this  one." 

"  Next,  the  ten-hour  system,"  pursued  Sa- 
lome, who  was  not  yet  ready  to  discuss  the 
improved  union.  "  Certainly  there  can  be 
no  possible  objection  against  granting  this 
clause?" 

"  Certainly  not,"  said  Burnham,  feeling  him- 
self appealed  to. 

"  '  The  new  frames   must  be  taken  out  and 


Mom  .fltcpurtt,  Icfavmcr.  91 

the  mules  replaced,  with  a  written  agreement 
that  no  more  of  the  obnoxious  machinery  shall 
be  added  for  five  years.'  That  seems  rather 
arbitrary.     How  is  it,  Mr.  Villard  ?  " 

"  It  is  arbitrary,"  he  responded.  "  The 
frames  must  be  retained.  We  must  be  allowed 
to  adopt  improved  machines  and  methods,  or 
where  shall  we  be  in  this  age  of  competition  ? 
But  I  think  there  will  be  little  trouble  with 
the  men,  if  I  am  allowed  to  approach  them  in 
the  right  way.     Anyhow,  I  will  try." 

"  Do  so,"  was  the  reply.  "  Make  them  see 
that  improved  methods  are  for  their  interest  as 
much  as  for  ours.  As  to  the  wage-section — 
were  their  wages  actually  cut  down  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  replied  both  men. 

"  That  must  not  be  allowed,"  said  Salome. 
"  The  mills  were  paying  a  handsome  profit 
when  this  was  done,  weren't  they  ?  " 

•'  They  were,"  said  Villard.  "  Better  than 
for  a  year  before." 

"  Give  them  their  old  pay,  with  the  under- 
standing that  wages  will  be  increased  when 
work  is  heavier.  I  propose  to  myself  a  wild 
scheme  of  profit-sharing,  or  a  sliding  scale  of 
wages,  in  the  future." 


92  ^atamc  ^^hfpavd,  ^{cfovmcv. 

"Good,"  cried  Villard.  "The  very  thing 
I've  been  Avanting  to  try.  I  believe  in  it 
heartily.  But  where  did  you  get  the  idea  of 
it?" 

"  Oh,  I've  been  reading  all  the  practical 
articles  I  could  find  on  political  economy,  as 
applied  to  mills  and  factories,  for  some  months," 
Salome  replied,  "  and  I  have  evolved  some  queer 
theories,  I  fear ;  but  I  propose  to  give  them  a 
fair  trial,  unless  you  pronounce  them  too  vision- 
ary. I  am  glad  you  approve  of  profit-sharing. 
And  you,  Mr.  Burnham  ?  " 

"  I  approve  of  making  the  experiment,"  said 
the  more  cautious  superintendent.  "  I  do  not 
jump  at  conclusions.  Nevertheless,  the  idea, 
though  new,  looks  practicable,  and  I  should 
like  to  see  it  tried." 

"  They  have  already  tried  it  in  one  or  two 
places  where  it  is  proving  a  great  success,  I 
believe,"  said  Salome.  "  You  know  the  ex- 
periment was  tried  as  long  ago  as  1831,  when 
Mr.  John  S.  Vandeleur  put  it  into  effect  suc- 
cessfully in  County  Clare,  Ireland.  The  Paris 
and  Orleans  Railway  Company  began  to  share 
profit  with  its  employes  in  1844,  and  the  Maison 
Leclaire,  I   think,   two  years  before,  both   of 


^^\mc  Mt\m\%  lUfovmcv.  93 

which  have  proved  very  successful.  I  do  not 
see  why  we  cannot  adopt  it." 

"  We  can,"  asserted  Villard,  confidently. 
"It  is  already  being  tried  on  a  small  scale  by 
several  firms  in  this  country.  Why  should  not 
we  join  the  procession  ?  " 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  about  the  de- 
mand  for  weekly   wages  ? "   asked   Burnham. 

"  What  objections  are  there  ? "  Salome 
asked. 

"  It  will  entail  extra  expense  for  clerks  and 
book-keepers,"  responded  Burnham.  "  That 
seems  unnecessary." 

"  The  men  claim  that  they  have  to  depend 
in  great  measure  on  the  credit  system  at  the 
stores,"  explained  Villard.  "  Their  wages 
coming  only  once  a  month,  they  get  short  of 
money.  If  sickness  or  other  additional  ex- 
pense comes  upon  them,  they  are  often  seriously 
inconvenienced  by  lack  of  their  rightful  wages. 
Again,  if  they  are  able  to  put  a  little  money  in 
the  sa^dngs-bank,  why  should  they  not  have  the 
benefit  of  the  interest  that  accrues  through  the 
month,  rather  than  we  ?     The  money  is  theirs." 

"  On  the  other  hand,"  interrupted  Burnham, 
"  those  men  whose  first  duty,  on  being  paid  olf. 


94  ^'alom^  <^hfjniM,  Reformer. 

seems  to  lie  in  getting  gloriously  drunk,  would 
have  the  opportunity  just  four  times  as 
often." 

"  We  have  a  work  to  do  in  that  direction," 
said  Salome  in  a  pained  voice.  "  In  a  sense  we 
are  our  brother's  keepers.  I  half  believe  that 
the  solution  of  the  temperance  question  is 
largely  in  the  control  of  the  employers  of  labor  ; 
and  that  the  secondary,  and  often  the  primary, 
causes  of  intemperance  are  bad  and  unwhole- 
some food,  which  create  a  craving  for  drink ; 
bad  company,  which  tempts  it ;  squalid  houses, 
which  drive  men  forth  for  cheerfulness;  and 
the  want  of  more  comfortable  places  of  resort 
which  leaves  them  no  refuge  but  the  saloons. 
It  is  in  our  power  to  remedy  all  these  evils. 
Give  them  good  sanitation,  well-ventilated 
houses,  comfortable  homes,  and  reading-rooms, 
and  coffee-parlors,  and  only  the  most  depraved 
will  be  tempted  by  the  low  saloons." 

"  But,  Miss  Shepard,  surely  you  do  not  pro- 
pose all  these  things  ?  "  and  Geoffrey  Burnham 
looked  his  astonishment. 

"  Why  not  ?  "  was  the  terse  reply. 

"  Where  will  your  profits  come  in  ?  You 
cannot  afford  it." 


^atatttc  <#hcinn'(l,  ^Ufovmcv.  95 

Salome  smiled.  Her  money  was  her  own. 
Why  should  she  not  vise  it  as  she  pleased  ? 

"  No.  For  the  first  year  or  two  I  shall  not 
pocket  an  immense  profit ;  that  is  true,"  she 
assented.  "  But  I  am  not  likely  to  come  to 
want.  And  Newbern  Shepard's  mills  must 
be  put  on  the  basis  where  he  desired,  above  all 
things,  to  see  them  during  his  life-time.  He 
planned  a  noble  scheme.  It  is  my  birthright 
and  my  duty  to  carry  it  into  effect.  It  will 
cost  me  something  to  get  the  mills  where  they 
must  be ;  but  it  will  pay  in  the  end.  Of  that 
I  feel  sure." 

"  You  are  quite  right,"  said  John  Villard. 
"  What  may  we  not  hope  for  when  the  con- 
dition of  the  working-people  shall  receive  that 
concentrated  attention  which  has  hitherto  been 
devoted  to  the  more  favored  ranks  ?  When 
charity,  which  has,  for  ages  past,  done  so  much 
mischief,  shall  learn  to  do  good  ?  When  the 
countless  pulpits  of  our  country,  wdiich  have 
always  been  so  active  in  preaching  Catholicism 
or  Anglicism,  Calvinism  or  Armenianism,  and 
all  other  isms,  shaU  preach  pure  and  simple 
Christianity  ?  When,  by  a  healthy  environ- 
ment of  the  toiling  masses,  and  the  exercise  of 


96  <^aIome  ^'licpavrt,  Reformer. 

hygienic  sense  and  science,  mankind  shall  be 
healthy  and  free  from  questionable  instincts  and 
morbidly  exaggerated  appetites?  I  tell  you, 
we  cannot  even  approach  an  estimate  of  the 
extent  to  which  every  improvement,  social, 
moral  or  material,  reacts  on  the  nation's  ethical 
and  intellectual  progress,  and  the  prosperity  of 
her  industries." 

"  But  you  are  taking  us  entirely  away  from 
the  question  in  hand,"  said  Geoffrey  Burnham, 
"which  was,  shall  we  grant  the  demand  for 
weekly  wages  ?  " 

"  Not  so  far  away  as  you  seem  to  think," 
retorted  Yillard.  "  The  questions  of  sanita- 
tion and  morality  affect  them,  and  us  too,  as 
well  as  the  question  of  weekly  wages.  As 
for  the  latter,  I  am  in  favor  of  trying  it 
on. 

"  So  am  I,"  said  Salome.  "  I  am  in  favor 
of  trying  every  new  method  until  we  can  know 
positively  which  are  the  best  ones." 

"  With  modifications,"  said  Burnham,  smil- 
ing at  her  vehemence.  "I  don't  exactly  ap- 
prove of  the  weekly  system,  but  the  majority 
are  against  me,  and  I  may  as  well  cast  my  vote 
with  yours.     Shall  we  send  for  their  committee. 


^atumc  .^hcpavrt,  ^{cfovmcv.  97 

then,  and  offer  them  all  concessions,  except 
those  relating  to  the  spinning-frames?  " 

"  Yes,  I  should  do  so,"  said  Salome,  "  and 
prepare  to  open  the  mills  at  once,  provided 
they  decide  to  accept  our  terms." 

"  That  is  practically  decided  already," 
laughed  Burnham,  "  hy  our  accepting  theirs. 
Villard,  you  may  negotiate  with  them  ahout 
the  frames.  They  are  inclined  to  listen  to  you 
better  than  to  me,  for  some  reason." 

"  They  know  I've  been  in  their  place,"  said 
Villard.  "  That  makes  all  the  difference  in 
the  world  to  them.  They  think  I  understand 
their  side  of  the  question ;  that  is  all." 

"  Then  you  will  confer  with  them  immedi- 
ately ?  "  said  Salome,  rising  to  go.  "  And  will 
you  make  all  necessary  preparations  to  open  the 
mills  ?     And  then  will  you  confer  with  me?  " 

"  Most  certainly.  Miss  Shepard."  Geoft'rey 
Burnham  spoke  for  both  of  them.  "  But — 
I  beg  your  pardon,  you  have  not  spoken  of  a 
new  agent.  We  must  have  one,  you  know. 
I  trust  you  have  made  some  vnse  selection  ?  " 

"  I  am  prepared  to  surprise  you,"  Salome 
replied,  buttoning  her  glove.  "  You  two  men 
will  oblige  me  by  transacting  all  necessary  busi- 


98  ^^atrnne  ^hriruvd,  |{cfovmcv. 

ness  for  the  present,  in  your  positions  of  first 
and  second  superintendents,  and  by  looking 
closely  after  the  thousand  details  which  I  do 
not  yet  understand.  Meanwhile,  I  shall  come 
to  the  office  every  day  and,  with  your  co-oper- 
ation and  kind  help,  shall  learn  the  business. 
I  have  too  many  schemes  for  the  general 
improvement  of  the  Shawsheen  Mills  and  its 
0]3eratives,  to  trust  the  mills  in  the  hands  of 
a  stranger.  I  propose  to  be  my  own  agent. 
Good-morning. ' ' 

Salome  Shepard  never  looked  handsomer,  or 
smiled  more  sweetly,  than  she  did  when  she 
uttered  the  last  sentence,  and  closed  the  door 
behind  her,  leaving  her  two  completely  aston- 
ished hearers   standinw-   in   the   middle  of   the 

o 

office. 

"  Whe-e-w  !  "  ejaculated  GeofPrey  Burnham, 
after  a  little.  "  How  does  that  strike  you  ? 
The  Shawsheen  Mills  run  by  a  ^  female  woman,' 
as  A.  Ward  would  put  it !  And,  by  George  ! 
we  are  expected  to  stay  and  work, — under  a 
woman  !  " 

John  Villard  broke  into  a  peal  of  laughter. 
"  It's  awfully  funny  at  first,"  he  said,  calm- 
ing down  again.     "But,  after  all,   why  not? 


Monit  ^^hcpiu'rt,  l^fovmrv.  99 

She  isn't  the  empty-headed,  aimless  creature 
we  thought  her.  She's  read  and  studied,  and 
has  some  very  sound  notions." 

"  But,  Villard— a  woman-agent  !  "  gasped 
Burnham.  "We  shall  be  the  laughing-stock 
of  the  whole  state." 

"  Let  them  laugh,"  answered  Villard.  "  They 
laugh  best  who  laugh  last.  And  with  her 
notions,  her  thirst  for  further  knowledge,  her 
enthusiasm,  and,  above  all,  her  money,'  the 
Shawsheen  Mills  will  be  in  a  position  at  the 
end  of  a  few  years  to  do  the  laughing,  while 
those  who  laugh  at  us  now  wdl  set  to  studying 
our  methods  and  come  to  us  for  advice." 

"But  she  knows  nothing  of  the  practical 
part  of  mill-economy,"  objected  Burnham.  "  The 
mills  will  goto  rack  and  ruin.  Jove!  Old 
Mr.  Greenough  would  turn  over  in  his  grave 
if  he  could  have  heard  her  as  she  stojjped 
in  the  door  and  said  :  '  I  propose  to  be  my 
own  agent.'     A  woman  ! " 

"  I  know,"  repHed  Villard,  "  that  it  will 
seem  odd,  and  perhaps  uncomfortably  so,  at  first, 
to  acknowledge  her  as  head.  But,  after  all' 
she  does  not  propose  to  dictate  as  to  the 
business  itself." 


100  ^alomf  ^Ucpavd,  ^^^fovmcv. 

"  She  will,"  interrupted  Burnliam.  "  Women 
always  do.  She  will  jump  at  conclusions, 
mistake  her  inferences  for  logical  deductions  and 
the  wisdom  which  comes  only  with  experience, 
and,  after  the  first  month,  will  know  more  than 
we  do.  I  know  women.  They  are  impulsive 
and  illogical ;  and  they  cali't  subvert  nature  and 
become  g-ood  business  men." 

"No;  but  they  may  prove  good  business 
women,"  was  Villard's  answer.  "  We  do  not 
know,  yet,  what  she  can  or  what  she  will  do. 
I  believe  she  will  be  willing  to  leave  the  details 
of  the  business  to  us  yet,  for  a  long  time.  She 
is  not  a  conceited  woman  ;  and  although  she 
has  the  faculty  common  to  her  sex  of  making 
some  surprising  jumps  at  conclusions,  I  do  not 
believe  her  to  be  obstinate  about  them.  She 
proposes  to  make  a  study  of  the  business,  and 
realizes  that  this  is  a  work  of  years.  And, 
besides,  what  will  save  the  mills  is  this  :  she 
has  an  extended  plan  in  manuscript  of  her 
g-randfather's  scheme  for  makinp;  this  an  ideal 
institution.  If  she  is  willing  to  leave  the 
business  to  us  for  the  present,  and  is  capable 
of  adaj)ting  Newbern  Shepard's  theories  of 
years  ago  to  the   needs  of  to-day,  we   are  all 


^atomc  ^hcpavrt,  itcfovmcv.  101 

right,  Jeff ;  and  a  new   era   is   about  to  begin 
for  the  Shawsheen  Mills." 

"I  only  hope  we  may  like  it,"  assented 
Burnliam  doubtfully.  "  And  now  for  the 
conference  with  the  Labor  Union." 


102  ^atomc  ^Ufimvd,  |Ufoi*nwi'. 


IX. 


Marion  Shaw  was  one  of  those  women  whose 
lives  are  a  constant  giving  o£  their  best,  with 
no  thouo^ht  of  return.  We  have  all  seen  such 
women.  From  the  self-sacrificing  maiden  aunt 
in  the  humblest  home,  up  to  the  Florence 
Nightingales  and  Dorothea  Dixes  of  the  world, 
they  are  God's  angels,  everywhere,  to  suffering 
humanity. 

Marion  Shaw  and  Salome  Shepard  had  been 
in  boarding-school  together  ;  and  although  the 
former  had  been  left  from  the  start  to  support 
herself  and  her  widowed  mother,  the  friendship 
between  the  two  skirls  had  never  abated. 

Marion's  mother  had  died  a  year  before,  and 
something  material  had  dropped  out  of  life 
for  the  sfirl.  Grief  and  the  solitude  which 
ensued  after  her  mother's  death  told  upon  her 
constitution  ;  and  when  Salome's  letter  of  invi- 


^alamc  ^Ucpatrt,  |lcfovmcv.  103 

tation  reached  her,  it  was  Hke  a  boon  from 
Heaven.  She  threw  up  her  situation  in 
Madame  Blanc's  private  school  and  went  to 
Shepardtown,  arriving-  there  late  in  the  evening, 
before  Salome's  visit  to  the  countino'-room. 

When  the  latter  came  home  they  settled  cosily 
in  Salome's  room  for  an  "  old-time  talk,"  such 
as  they  had  enjoyed  as  girls. 

"  Why  didn't  you  let  me  know  you  were 
tired  to  death  with  that  interminable  teach- 
ing ?  "  asked  Salome.  "  I  should  have  had  you 
come  to  me  long  ago.  You  are  as  pale  as  a 
ghost." 

"  Oh,  I'm  all  right  now,"  answered  Marion, 
who  never  cared  to  talk  of  herself.  "  Tell  me 
about  the  strike  here.  I  read  of  it  in  a  Boston 
news23aper,  when  it  came  on,  and  again  when 
Mr.  Greenough  died.  But,  after  the  fashion 
of  newspapers  with  regard  to  anything  you 
care  23articularly  to  follow  up,  they  dropped 
the  subject  the  minute  one's  interest  was 
roused.  And  your  letter  was  so  meager  !  Yes, 
it  was.  You  only  write  the  barest  details,  and 
not  too  many  of  them.     Is  the  strike  ended  ?  " 

"  No,  but  I  hope  it  will  be  before  night," 
Salome  replied.     "  I've  given  orders  this  morn- 


104  <falomc  ^Hcpavtl,  ^{cfovmn'. 

ing  that  a  compromise  be  made  at  once.  Yes, 
don't  stare  at  me,  please.  Why  shouldn't  I 
give  orders?     They're  my  mills." 

"  I'm  not  staring.  It's  vulgar  to  stare,  and 
the  lady  professors  at  Mme.  Blanc's  fashion- 
able boarding-school  do  not  stare.  Why,  it 
would  be  as  much  as  their  position  is  worth  !  " 
retorted  Marion.  "  Yes,  they're  your  mills,  I 
suppose,  and  a  handsome  piece  of  property 
they  are  too,  in  the  eyes  of  poor  me,  who  own 
only  the  clothes  on  my  back.  But,  pardon 
me,  dear,  it  does  seem  a  little  odd  to  hear 
Salome  Shepard,  the  most  exclusive  and  the 
most  fashionable  girl  at  school,  talk  about 
giving  orders  in  a  cotton-mill.  You're  not 
getting  strong-minded,  are  you,  dear  ?  " 

"  If  to  beofin  to  take  an  active  interest  in 
two  thousand  souls,  who  are  dependent  upon  my 
money  and  the  business  interests  it  represents, 
is  to  become  strong-minded,  I'm  afraid  I  shall 
have  to  plead  guilty."  Salome  looked  narrowly 
at  her  friend.  Possibly  she  had  mistaken 
her,  and  their  sympathies  were  farther  apart 
than  she  had  hoped. 

"  Bless  you !  "  responded  Marion  heartily, 
"  I'm  strong-minded  myself  ;  want  to  vote  and 


Salome*  ^hcpava,  llcfovmcv.  105 

all  that.  Don't  believe  intemperance  and  lots 
of  other  evils  will  ever  be  subdued  in  this 
country,  until  women  have  something  to  say, 
and  say  it  through  the  ballot-box.  It  is  not 
so  very  dreadful  when  you  once  get  on  to  that 
platform,  is  it?  " 

"  Oh,  I  hadn't  thought  of  voting  particu- 
larly," Salome  hastened  to  answer.  "  I  don't 
really  think  I  want  that.  But  I  do  want  to  do 
something  for  my  people." 

"  And  you'll  find,"  retorted  Marion,  "  before 
you've  gone  very  far,  that  if  you  had  the  power 
of  legislation,  you  could  help  them  ten  times 
as  well." 

"  Possibly,"  Salome  answered,  doubtfully. 
"  But,  Marion,  there  are  so  many  things 
absolutely  necessary  to  be  done  for  the  Shaw- 
sheen  operatives.  If  you  could  see  them  and  the 
homes  they  live  in,  the  temptations  to  which 
they  are  exposed,  the  poverty  in  which  they 
live!" 

"  And  you  propose  to  go  to  work  among 
them, — to  reform  them  ?  " 

"  Yes,  God  helping  me ;  them  and  the 
factory  system  together.  Behold  me,"  said 
Salome,  rising  to  her  full  height,  and  putting 


lOG  M^om  Mm^%  'gvUvmtv, 

on  a  mock-tragic  air :  "  Beliokl  and  see :  Salome 
Shepard,  Reformer.     That's  my  platform." 

"  Salome,  dear,  what  do  you  mean  ?  "  Mrs. 
Soule  had  just  come  in.  "  Don't  mind  her, 
Marion,  she  delights  in  hearing  herself  talk 
like  a  suffrage  leader,  lately.  I  don't  approve 
of  it,  as  she  knows  ;  hut  I  can  only  wait  for 
the  mood  to  pass." 

"  Which  it  never  will,  aunty  dear,"  Salome 
hastened  to  say.  "  So  long  as  I  live  and  am 
in  a  condition  to  work  for  the  people  who  need 
substantial  and  material  aid,  as  these  people  do, 
my  life  will  be  devoted  to  their  service.  I  can- 
not go  on  living  the  aimless,  indifferent  life 
which  has  been  mine  ever  since  I  left  school. 
I  must  have  some  active  interest,  or  I  shall 
stagnate,  or,  worse  still,  settle  into  a  cold,  hard, 
selfish  woman  of  the  world.  Unfortunately  I 
was  born  with  a  heart ;  unfortunately  for  your 
ideal  of  the  proper  young  lady  of  the  period,  I 
was  born  with  a  conscience,  and  this  conscience 
tells  me  that  my  fortune  was  given  me  only  in 
trust.  It  is  not  mine  for  selfish  enjoyment 
alone  ;  it  is  mine  to  make  the  world  better  and 
happier  and  purer." 

"  And  you  are  going  to   work  among  those 


5al0mf  ^hcpavrt,  ^tcfovmcv.  107 

miserable  drunken  operatives,"  said  lier  aunt 
coldly,  "whose  sordid  lives,  and  ungrateful 
hearts,  the  whole  of  them,  are  not  worth  the 
effort  of  even  one  month  of  your  life,  even  if 
you  were  at  all  a  capable  woman  of  affairs,  a 
woman  of  judgment  and  discretion,  a  woman 
of  sound  business  sense, — which  you  are  not." 

"  Yes,  '  among  the  drunken  miserable  opera- 
tives,' "  replied  Salome,  ignoring  the  latter  part 
of  her  aunt's  speech.  "  Among  those  sordid 
lives  and  ungrateful  hearts,  that  were  worth 
the  Christ's  dying,  and  for  whom  He  Avorked, 
living." 

"  You  don't  think  of  joining  the  Salvation 
Army,  I  hope  ? "  exclaimed  her  aunt,  quite 
beside  herself  at  this  new  development  of  her 
niece's  purposes. 

Salome  laughed. 

"  I  shall  hardly  have  the  time,  aunty.  I've 
accepted  a  position  at  the  Shawslieen  Mills." 

"  A  position  ?  "  gasped  Mrs.  Soule.  "  Oh, 
Salome  !  Who  offered  you — who  dared  offer 
you  a  2^ositlon  f  " 

"  The  fair  owner  of  the  mills  offered  it," 
answered  Salome,  enjoying  the  situation  to 
its   fullest  extent.      "  And  I  accepted,  aunty. 


108  ^atomc  ^HciJant,  ^Ufovmct. 

Marion,  in  me  you  see  the  agent  of  the  Shaw- 
sheen  Mills  !  " 

Marion  Shaw  rose  and  clasped  her  friend 
closely  to  her  bosom.  She  admired  her  splen- 
did courage  and  avowed  principles,  and  hon- 
ored this  woman,  with  money  and  leisure  at  her 
command,  who  was  willing  and  anxious  to  de- 
vote her  life  to  service  for  others.  But  not  so 
Mrs.  Soule. 

She  applied  a  delicate  mull  and  lace  hand- 
kerchief to  her  eyes,  and  wept  to  think  to  what 
an  end  had  come  her  years  of  training ;  her 
careful  watch,  that  Salome  should  never,  by  any 
chance,  come  in  contact  with  a  lower  world; 
her  lifelong  aim  to  make  of  Salome  the  perfect 
being  prescribed  by  her  somewhat  limited  and 
narrowed  rules  of  ladyhood. 

She  begged  ;  she  pleaded  ;  she  argued  ;  she 
threatened  ;  she  resorted  to  ridicule  ;  but 
Salome  stood  firm,  and  now  laughingly  and 
then  earnestly  defended  the  course  she  had 
taken. 

"  It's  of  no  use,  aunty,  as  you  see,  for  us  to 
argue  the  case.  I  do  not  forget  all  your  kind- 
ness and  love  for  me  ;  but  I  must  choose  for 
myself,"  she  said,  finally.     "  I  am  old  enough 


,^atomc  ^Ucpavrt,  ^Icfovmcv.  109 

to  decide  questions  of  right  and  wrong.  Here- 
after we  will  not  argue  any  more.  I  must  do 
this  ;  you  nnist  submit ;  and  that  is  all  there 
is  about  it.  Now,  let's  make  up  and  befriends," 
and  she  bent  down  and  kissed  her  aunt  on  botli 
cheeks,  as  she  used  to  do  when  she  was  a  little 
girl. 

"  You,  a  child  of  Cora  de  Bourdillon's  !  " 
murmured  her  aunt,  softening  a  little. 

"  Cora  de  Bourdillon  was  my  mother,"  said 
Salome.  "  But  before  and  above  all  else,  New- 
bern  Shepard  Avas  my  grandfather.  I  am  like 
him.  I  must  be  like  him.  And  you  must 
submit  to  the  laws  of  heredity." 

So  there  was  never  any  more  prolonged  dis- 
cussion between  them.  Salome's  nature  beini»" 
so  much  the  stronger,  kind-hearted,  weak  Mrs. 
Soule  could  not  oppose  her  further.  But  many 
times,  in  after  years,  was  she  heard  to  deplore 
the  fact  that  Cora  de  Bourdillon's  child  was 
so  thorough-going  an  epitome  of  Newbern 
Shepard. 

"  A  good  man,"  she  would  say.  "  A  per- 
fectly honest  and  well-meaning  man ;  but  not 
like  Us  !  " 


110  Salome  ^hrpavd,  |lef0vm«v. 


X. 


Early  that  evening  Geoffrey  Burnliam  and 
John  Villard  were  announced.  Mrs.  Soule  and 
Salome  were  alone  in  the  parlors  when  they 
came  in,  hut  Marion  was  sent  for. 

"  And  you've  brought  good  news  ?  "  asked 
Salome.  "They've  consented  to  go  to  work 
again  .'' 

"  Of  course,"  Burnham  replied.  "  They 
were  only  too  glad  to  meet  us  on  any  sort  of 
terms." 

"  Wait  till  my  friend  comes  down,"  said 
Salome.  "  She  is  interested,  and  will  want  to 
hear  the  details.  Oh,  here  she  is.  Miss  Shaw, 
allow  me  to  present  my  two  confreres  (and 
teachers  as  well),  Mr.  Burnham  and  Mr.  Vil- 
lard." 

"  And  so  it  is  really  settled  ?  "  Salome  asked, 
"  and  the  mills  are  to  be  opened  again  ?  " 


^atotnc  ^hcpavrt,  llefovmcv.  Ill 

"Monday  morning,  if  you  like,"  replied  Burn- 
ham,  "  or  earlier.  But  to-day  is  Wednesday, 
and  there  are  many  things  to  he  done  where 
the  mills  have  stood  idle  for  months." 

"  I'm  so  glad,"  returned  Salome. 

"  There  is  hearty  rejoicing  throughout  the 
corporation,"  said  Villard.  "  I  was  coming 
through  there  to-night  and  met  a  couple  of  little 
boys  with  bundles  of  groceries  in  their  arms. 
The  smallest  looked  up  and  smiled.  ^  We're 
going  to  have  a  good  supper  of  meat  and  potato 
to-night,'  he  said.  ^  The  mills  are  going  to 
open  and  pa's  got  work.'  I  asked  him  how 
long  since  he  had  had  meat,  and  he  said  not 
since  Christmas  .;  and  even  then  he  only  had 
a  turkey's  wing  that  somebody  gave  him." 

"  Poor  boy  !  Tell  me  about  your  conference 
with  the  Labor  Union." 

"  It  passed  off  smoothly,"  Villard  went  on. 
"  Burnham  told  him  we  came  from  you,  and 
were  prepared  to  make  terms  with  them.  We 
only  saw  the  committee  you  know,  and  they 
are  to  lay  our  terms  before  the  Union  to-night  ; 
but  there  is  no  doubt  that  they  will  accept. 
They  are  really  very  sensible  and  shrewd, 
those  fellows  on  the  committee,  eh,  Burnham?'* 


112  ^iUomc  ^htpard,  ^Ufovmcr. 

"  Remarkably,"  replied  the  first  superintend- 
ent. "  I  didn't  know  we  had  such  intellisrent 
men." 

"  But  it  is  our  business  to  know  it,"  Villard 
returned,  and  Salome  nodded  her  head.  "  We 
laid  our  plans  before  them,  and  told  them 
that  Ave  would  concede  all  their  wishes,  except 
about  the  machinery  of  course.  And  one  of 
their  own  number  spoke  up  promptly  and  said 
it  was  hot-headed  bigotry  on  their  part  that 
had  made  them  stick  for  the  removal  of  the 
frames.  And  that  most  of  them,  even  the 
Lancaster  spinners,  had  come  to  see  that  every 
improvement  to  the  mills  meant  an  improve- 
ment of  their  condition.  Then  the  secretary 
wanted  to  know  if  they  were  to  be  allowed  to 
exist  as  a  Union.  Burnhamtold  them  that  you 
were  takino"  a  g'reat  interest  in  the  manao'ement 
of  the  mills  ;  and  that  we  all  believe  that  no 
harm  can  come  of  their  organizing  them- 
selves into  an  association,  provided  they  were 
willing  to  be  reasonable,  and  to  confer  with  us 
before  taking  extreme  measures  again.  He 
begged  them  to  believe  that  you  are  their 
friend,  and  want  them  all  to  have  a  fair  chance. 
And  he  ended  by  assuring   them  that  we,  as 


<^alomc  ^hcpavd,  ^Uformcr.  113 

superintendents,  fully  concurred  with  you ;  and 
that  he  hoped  they  would  be  willing  to  start  on 
a  new  basis,  and  to  consider  our  interests  as 
they  expect  and  desire  us  to  remember  theirs. 
Burnham  did  himself  proud,  Miss  Shepard,  and 
I  could  see  they  were  a  good  deal  afPected  by 
his  conduct." 

"  1  am  covered  with  blushes,"  declared 
Burnham.     "  Spare  my  modesty." 

"  Blushing  must  be  a  novel  sensation  to 
you,"  retorted  Villard.  "  The  leaders  shook 
hands  with  us  when  we  came  away  and 
thanked  us  for  what  we  had  said,  assuring 
us  that  they  Avould  be  ready  to  enter  the 
mills  again  at  once.  And  a  different  spirit 
is  evident  to-night,  all  through  the  corpora- 
tion." 

"  Don't  be  too  sanguine,"  interrupted  Burn- 
ham. "  We're  not  through  the  woods  yet. 
And  there  are  several  ends  to  be  achieved 
before  the  millennium  dawns." 

"  I  should  like,"  said  Salome,  "  if  it  will 
not  bore  you  too  much,  to  outline  the  general 
plan  I  have  formed  for  raising  the  condition  of 
things  at  the  mills." 

"  Nothing   would  give   us   greater   pleasure 


114  ^^altrmc  <^Itf}n\nt,  ^efomw?. 

than  such  a  proof  of  your  confidence,"  replied 
Burnham. 

"  And  we  can  assure  you  beforehand,"  said 
Yillard,  "  of  our  hearty  co-operation." 

No  one  but  Salome  noticed  that  her  aunt 
had  quietly  slipped  away  when  she  spoke  of 
her  plan.  Mrs.  Soule  did  not  care  to  hear 
Salome  "  talk  shop." 

"  In  the  first  place,"  Salome  began,  "  are 
the  mills  all  they  should  be  ?  Are  they  well 
lighted,  aired  and  drained  ?  Is  the  machinery 
such  as  to  benefit  both  the  operators  and  the 
business  interests  of  the  mills  ?  " 

"No,  they  are  not  quite  up  to  modern 
standards,"  Villard  replied,  promptly. 

"  I  don't  know,"  pursued  Burnham,  "  but 
they  are  quite  as  good  as  the  average.  There 
are  many  worse  mills  than  the  Shawsheen." 

"  That  isn't  the  point,"  Salome  replied. 
"  Are  there  any  better  ?  Or  are  they  capable 
of  improvement  ?  " 

"  Well,  yes,  if  you  don't  consider  expense," 
assented  Burnham. 

"  Are  they  well-lighted  ?  Are  their  sanitary 
conditions  good  ?  " 

"  They  are  very  well-lighted  indeed,"   said 


Jlat0m«  ^Itcpril,  §{f farmer.  115 

Villard;  "your  gTaiidfather  built  much  in 
advance  of  his  time,  and  the  mills  are  all  light 
and  strong.  But  they  need  better  ventilation 
in  cold  weather ;  and,  as  you  know,  sanitary 
science  in  Newbern  Shepard's  day  was  hardly 
ujD  to  modern  demands." 

"  I  propose  putting  in  the  best  drainage 
system  we  can  find.  I  propose  bath-rooms, 
wash-rooms  and  elevators." 

"  Good  ! "  said  both  her  superintendents. 

"  As  for  machinery,  you  will  know  what  is 
needed  there.  We  want  the  latest  improved 
methods  of  doing  our  work.  It  will  not  do 
for  us  to  be  behind  the  times,  or  the  world 
will  laugh  at  our  philanthropic  efforts.  The 
standard  of  the  mills  must  be  as  liio'li  now  as 
it  was  in  my  grandfather's  day.  Nothing  but 
the  best  of  goods,  made  after  the  most  ap- 
proved modern  methods,  must  go  out  from  us. 
Otherwise  the  world  will  say  we  are  visionary 
and  lack  good  business  sense." 

"  That  is  true,"  assented  Burnham.  "  The 
business  must  not  suffer." 

"  At  the  same  time,  I  want  the  mills  made  so 
pleasant  and  comfortable  that  our  operatives 
will  prefer  them  to  any  other,  knowing  that 


116  ^alumc  <#Hcpavtl,  l^ffovmrv. 

we  propose  to  consult  their  interests  and  hap- 
piness in  little  things,  as  Ave  desire  that  they 
shall  consult  ours  in  great.  Then  their  homes. 
Those  old  rickety  tenement  houses  must  be 
abolished  from  the  face  of  the  earth." 

"  Hear,  hear,"  cried  Villard,  "  they  have 
long  been  an  eyesore  to  me." 

"  They  are  a  disgrace  to  us,"  was  Salome's 
emphatic  answer. 

"  But  you  can't  do  that  all  at  once,"  said 
Burnham.  "  That  is  something  that  will  take 
time." 

"  It  is  April  now,"  said  Salome.  "  I  pro- 
pose to  begin  at  once  on  new  houses  for  the 
operatives.  They  will  have  to  stay  where  they 
are  for  the  summer,  but  by  cold  Aveather  I 
mean  that  every  one  of  them  shall  be  in  new 
quarters." 

"Whew!"  said  Burnham;  "you  are  a 
woman  of  business.  Miss  Shepard.  But  you 
will  have  your  hands  full  this  year  to  build 
new  houses  for  two  thousand  people." 

"  It  can  be  done  though,"  Villard  replied. 
"  There  are  plenty  of  carpenters  and  builders 
to  be  had.  What  kind  of  tenements  do  you 
propose  ?  " 


<^atamc  ^licimnt,  ^Vfovmcr.  117 

"  I  have  not  fully  decided.  At  first  I 
thought  of  having  single  cottages  for  every 
family,  with  a  tiny  plot  of  land  for  each.  But 
sometimes  I  wonder  if  some  of  the  plans  for 
model  tenement  houses  would  not  be  more 
feasible.     What  do  you  think  ?  " 

"  There  are  advantages  in  both/'  said  Burn- 
ham.  "  It  is  doubtful  if  many  of  the  opera- 
tives would  appreciate  a  whole  house,  or  take 
good  care  of  one.  On  the  other  hand,  the  best 
tenement  house  system  in  the  Avorld  has  its 
drawbacks." 

"  In  a  country-place  where  there  is  room 
enough,  as  there  is  here,"  advised  Villard,  "  it 
seems  to  me  that  the  single  cottage  system  is 
the  better.  Each  family  can  then  have  a 
certain  privacy,  impossible  to  the  tenement 
house  system.  They  can  soon  be  educated  up 
to  caring  for  their  places,  and,  I  think,  will 
soon  come  to  take  pride  in  them.  They  may 
not  pay,  at  first ;  but  they  will  serve  a  higher 
purpose.  I  have  thought  it  would  be  a  fine 
thing, — in  the  Utopia  of  which  I  have  often 
dreamed, — if,  connected  with  such  a  factory  as 
this,  could  be  built  some  substantial,  inexpen- 
sive cottages  which  could  be  sold  to  the  work- 


118  <f  atomc  .^hcnavtl,  |lcfavmcv, 

ing-men  with  families,  on  very  easy  terms. 
Let  tliem  occupy  them  as  tenants,  for  instance, 
until  their  rentals  amount  to  a  certain  sum — 
say  two  hundred  dollars, — unless  they  have 
been  fortunate  enouoh  to  have  saved  that 
amount,  which  they  can  pay  down,  and  then 
let  them  take  a  deed  of  the  place  and  give  us 
a  mortgage.  Pardon  me.  Miss  Shepard,  I  am 
only  supposing  a  case." 

"  And  quite  a  supposable  one,"  said  Salome, 
her  eyes  glowing.     "  Why  can't  it  be  done  ?  " 

"  Doubtful  if  any  of  them  would  burden 
themselves  with  a  debt  like  that,"  demurred 
Burnham. 

"I  think  they  would,"  Villard  responded. 
"  The  desire  for  a  home  of  one's  own  is  an  in- 
stinct which  is  implanted  in  every  human  breast. 
If  the  steadier,  more  sensible  men  of  the  mills 
could  be  induced  to  try  it,  it  would  soon  be- 
come the  ambition  of  all  the  younger  ones  to 
own  their  homes.  I  am  sure  the  overseers,  at 
least,  would  like  to  try  it.  So  many  of  our 
operatives  live  in  a  hand-to-mouth  fashion, 
never  saving  anything.  Let  them  see  that 
what  they  pay  for  rent  will  be  credited 
to   them  ;  that   they   are   actually  saving  that 


^atomc  <f  hciravtt,  |tcfavmfv.  119 

money,  and  they  will,  for  the  most  part,  gladly 
fall  in  with  the  scheme.  And  Avhen  a  man 
begins  to  save  up  money,  and  to  feel  that  he  is 
worth  something,  his  self-respect  increases  and 
ambition  makes  a  man  of  him.  I  tell  you,  I 
believe  the  thing  could  be  done  here,  and  the 
condition  of  our  working-men  be  vastly  im- 
proved by  it." 

"  We  will,  at  least,  make  the  experiment," 
said  Salome  earnestly.  "  At  first  a  Avild  dream 
came  to  me  of  building  model  tenement  houses 
and  practically  giving  them  the  rent.  But  I 
soon  came  to  see  that  it  would  be  better  for 
them  to  pay  what  they  could  afford  for  im- 
proved conditions." 

"  That  would  be  far  wiser,"  said  Villard. 
"  To  make  them  objects  of  charity  would  be  to 
lower  their  condition  in  the  long  run." 

"  Then  I  have  a  plan  for  the  girls,"  Salome 
went  on.  "  So  many  of  them  live  in  those 
dreadful  boarding-houses.  I've  been  into  one, 
and  I  wonder  how  any  girl  can  keej)  her  self- 
respect  and  live  there.  I  am  going  to  build  a 
large  building,  which  shall  have  plenty  of  light, 
airy  bed-rooms,  prettily  and  inexpensively  fur- 
nished; so  that  a  girl  may  feel  that  she  has  a 


120  $iA\mit  $\\t\mxAf  %tUK\MV, 

cosy  little  spot  somewhere  on  earth  of  her  very 
own.  I  am  going  to  have  model  bath-rooms 
and  a  large,  cheerful  dining-room.  There  will 
be  a  matron  to  the  establishment  who  will  be 
like  a  mother  to  the  girls ;  not  one  who  will 
care  nothing  whether  her  girls  are  sober  and 
respectable,  or  miserable  and  besotted,  so 
long  as  they  pay.  This  woman  will  win  the 
confidence  of  the  girls,  and  lead  them  into 
habits  of  personal  cleanliness  and  common 
sense;  she  will  take  an  interest  in  their  little 
personal  affairs,  and  advise  them  kindly  and 
judiciously.  In  short,  she  will  make  a  home 
for  them  in  the  truest  sense  of  the  word." 

"  You  will  have  to  have  her  made  to  order, 
Salome,"  interrupted  Marion  from  the  sofa  where 
she  had  been  an  interested  listener.  "Such 
paragons  do  not  exist." 

"  And  would  scarcely  be  appreciated  by  the 
average  factory  girl  if  they  did,"  added  Burn- 
ham,  smiling  at  Marion. 

"I  shall  have  a  large  and  pleasant  parlor 
with  a  piano  and  a  comfortable  reading-room," 
Salome  continued,  as  though  not  hearing  ;  "  I 
don't  suppose  the  girls,  judging  from  what  I 
hear  and  see  of  them,  will  care  much  for  read- 


^atomc  J'hciravrt,  ^Ufovmcv.  121 

ing  at  first ;  but  if  I  put  plenty  of  light,  health- 
ful literature  in  their  way,  with  illustrated  books 
and  good  pictures  on  the  walls,  they  will 
"•radually  come  to  like  them.  And  then,  there 
must  be  weekly  entertainments,  and  perhaps  a 
hall." 

"  And  what  about  the  young  men  ?  "  inquired 
Villard.  "  Are  you  going  to  leave  our  sex  out 
in  the  cold  ?  " 

"  Yes,  if  you  educate  the  girls  so  much  above 
them,  what  are  the  young  felloAvs  to  do  ?" 

"They  shall  have  such  a  boarding-house 
too,"  said  Salome,  "  only  we'll  call  them 
Unions.  I  hate  the  name  boarding-house, 
and  I  should  think  they  would ;  and  then,  by 
and  by,  there  are  still  other  schemes  in  my  mind. 
There  are  children,  plenty  of  them,  on  the 
corporation.  They  are  poor,  sickly,  unkempt, 
uncared-for.     All  this  must  be  changed." 

"  That  will  come,  I  think,"  said  Buridiam, 
"  with  their  improved  conditions  and  surround- 
ino-s.  It  is  unhealthful  where  they  now  are. 
Shall  you  build  the  new  houses  there  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  I  forgot  to  say,"  answered  Salome, 
"  that  we  must  put  up  their  new  quarters  on 
the  hill,  the  other  side  of  the  mills.    It  is  much 


122  Momt  ^\\t\)m\,  W^ttovmtt. 

pleasanter  up  there,  and  a  far  more  healthful 
locality.  Work  on  them  can  begin  right  away. 
Will  you  find  me  the  proper  man  to  undertake 
the  building  of  the  houses,  Mr.  Villard  ?  " 

John  Villard's  heart  fairly  burned  with  en- 
thusiasm. This  was  a  project  he  had  long 
cherished,  although  he  had  been  entirely 
without  means  or  prospect  of  ever  being  able 
to  carry  it  out. 

"  You  may  be  sure  I  will  do  my  best,"  he 
answered. 

"  And  we  will  reserve  the  power  of  directing 
and  planning  the  buildings  ourselves,"  she  added. 

"  I'm  glad  you're  going  to  do  something  for 
the  children,"  said  Marion.  "  If  you  don't 
succeed  in  improving  things  in  this  generation 
much,  you  will  in  the  next,  if  you  educate  the 
children." 

"  That  is  what  I  propose  to  do,"  said  Salome. 
"  They  must  have  better  schools  than  they  ever 
had." 

"  And  be  compelled  to  attend  them,"  inter- 
posed Burnham. 

"  Oh,  there  are  so  many  things  to  be  done.  It 
will  take  years  to  get  everything  in  working 
order." 


Salome  ^hcpavtt,  ^^cfovmcv.  123 

"  You  have  laid  out  a  beautiful  scheme,  Miss 
Shepard,"  remarked  Geoffrey  Burnham,  "  aui 
in  most  respects  a  practical  one.  But  you 
must  not  be  too  sanguine.  These  people  are 
ignorant, — fairly  steeped  in  ignorance.  They 
are  jealous,  too,  and  doubtless  will  mistrust 
your  motives,  and  believe  you  have  some  selfish 
reason  behind  all  your  endeavor." 

"  I  liave,"  laughed  Salome.  "  I  want  my 
mills  to  be  models,  and  my  people  to  be  the 
best,  most  skilled,  most  intelligent,  and  most 
progressive  community  in  America." 

"  Bravo  !  "  said  Villard.     "  So  do  I." 

"  I  am  not  so  sanguine  as  you  may  think," 
Salome  went  on.  "I  know  tliey  are  ignorant. 
How  should  they  be  anything  else  ?  All  their 
lives  they've  been  used  as  we  use  the  machines 
in  the  factory, — to  make  good  cloth,  and  plenty 
of  money.  Nobody  has  thought  of  their  wel- 
fare, or  cared  what  they  did,  or  thought,  or 
became,  when  working-hours  were  over.  Hov^ 
do  we  know  what  sort  of  men  they  are,  or  what 
capabilities  they  possess?  I  read  somewhere, 
only  the  other  day,  that  there  may  still  be 
Fichtes  tending  geese,  and  Robert  Burns'  toiling 
on  the  farm ;  that  there  may  be,  yet,  successors 


124  Salome  ^tofpard,  %tUvmtK. 

of  William  Dean  Howells  at  the  type-forms,  of 
T.  B.  Aldric'li  at  the  book-keeper's  desk,  of 
Mark  Twain  at  the  pilot-wheel.  We  have  no 
right  to  keep  them  back.  But  this  writer  went 
on  to  say,  that  the  world  has  less  need  of  them, 
even,  than  of  those  who  cannot  aspire  to  thrive 
outside  the  shop,  and  Avho  go  to  their  daily  toil 
knowing  that  their  highest  hope  must  be  not 
to  get  '  out  of  a  job  '  and  not  to  have  their 
wages  cut.  I  don't  suppose  they  will,  at  once, 
appreciate  our  efforts  to  better  their  condition. 
Possibly  they  will  oppose  us  at  first;  but  we 
can  have  no  better  task  to  perform  than  to 
make  them  prosperous,  contented  and  joyous 
in  their  work.  And  by  making  a  man  of  the 
operative,  I  fully  believe  we  shall  bring  material 
prosperity  to  the  mills." 

"  But  the  expense,"  urged  Burnham.  "  Have 
you  calculated  that  ?  I  doubt  if  the  mills  could 
stand  so  heavy  a  burden  all  at  once." 

"  I  have  calculated  the  expense,"  Salome 
answered  him.  "  And  what  cannot  be  done  from 
the  yearly  profits  of  the  mills,  I  will  do  myself." 

"  We  shall  be  eagerly  Avatched  by  the  whole 
manufacturing  world,"  said  Burnham. 

"  So  much  the  better,"  added  Villard.     "  It 


^alomc  ^hcpavd,  l^cfovmcv.  125 

is  time  somebody  set  the  example.  I£  we 
succeed  in  carrying  out  all  these  plans,  and  keep 
the  mills  on  a  paying  basis  as  well,  it  will  be 
the  beginning  of  a  mighty  reform  in  the  work- 
ing-man's world.     I  believe  we  can  succeed." 

"  You  Avill  be  called  quixotic  and  all  sorts  of 
pleasant  things,  Salome,"  said  her  friend  Marion. 

"  The  beginner  in  any  reform  is  always 
called  a  crank,  if  nothing  worse,"  replied 
Salome.  "  If  I  chose  to  build  a  million  dollar 
castle  to  live  in  myself ;  if  I  preferred  to  dress 
in  cloth  of  gold  and  silver ;  if  I  insisted  upon 
eating  off  solid  gold  dishes ;  or  even  if  I  were 
to  endow  a  church  or  a  female  college,  the 
world  would  admire  and  praise  me,  and  say 
these  things  are  a  rich  woman's  prerogative. 
If  I  choose  instead  to  spend  my  fortune  on  the 
Shawsheen  Mills,  and  elevate  by  its  judicious 
expenditure  two  thousand  operatives  for  whom 
I  ought  to  feel  morally  and  socially  responsible, 
the  world  will  probably  wonder  and  call  me 
quixotic.  Christ  Himself  was  called  a  fanatic. 
Most  people  to-day,  if  they  voiced  theii"  real 
sentiments,  would  wonder  that  He  could  be  so 
democratic  as  to  die  for  the  whole  world,  igno- 
rant, uncultivated,  detestable  sinners,  and  all." 


126  ^lAlamt  ^)xtm%  W^ffovmtw 

One  of  those  silences  fell  upon  the  room, 
that  always  follows  the  mention  of  Christ's 
name  in  a  conversation  not  strictly  "  religious  " 
in  character.  Marion  was  admiring'  the  cour- 
age of  her  friend ;  Burnham  was  rather  taken 
aback  at  this  fearless  reference  to  a  Being 
whom  he  seldom  heard  mentioned  outside  the 
churches ;  and  Villard  was  surprised  and  de- 
lighted with  this  unworldly  woman  of  the  world, 
and  her  avowal  of  principles  and  hopes  and 
wishes  which  he  had  cherished  for  years.  He 
was  the  first  to  speak. 

"  You  must  have  done  some  hard  thinking, 
— and  a  good  deal  of  reading,  in  the  past  six 
months." 

"  Yes,"  answered  Salome.  "  I  have.  I  have 
read  everything  I  could  think  or  hear  of,  on 
subjects  bearing  on  this  case ;  and  I  have  lain 
awake  many  a  night,  since  it  was  really  borne  in 
upon  me  that  I  have  something  to  do  here,  plan- 
ning my  work.  But  the  greater  part  of  the 
credit,  if  there  is  any,  in  my  plans,  lies  with  my 
grandfather.  He  thought  out  many  of  these 
things,  years  ago  ;  I  have  simply  adapted  his 
theories  to  our  modern  times  and  conditions." 


^alomc  <#Ucj)uv<l,  ^ffumtv.  127 


XI. 


And  so  the  great  strike  ended. 

Had  Salome  realized  the  burden  of  care 
which  she  was  taking  upon  herself,  it  is  doubt- 
ful whether  she  would  have  assumed  it  as 
cheerfully  as  she  did.  But  as  weeks  rolled 
into  months,  and  res])onsibilities  multiplied 
and  cares  increased  until  she  became  as  hard  a 
worker  as  any  in  the  mills,  she  did  not  flinch. 
She  had  put  her  hand  to  the  plough,  and  it 
did  not  once  occur  to  her  to  turn  back. 

She  went  to  the  offi.ce  of  the  mills  the  day 
they  were  opened,  and  began  to  study,  thorough- 
ly, the  details  of  the  business.  Villard  and 
Burnham  were  her  teachers,  and  both  were 
often  astonished  at  her  business  keenness  and 
cool  judgment.  She  had  pressed  Marion  into 
service  immediately,  and  always  took  her  to 
the    counting-room,     where     the     two     staid 


128  Salome  ^hcpuvrt,  |%ffovmfi'. 

throughout  the  entire  morning,  going  home  to 
lunch  at  two,  and  usually  remaining  there  the 
rest  of  the  day.  But  always,  whether  she  was 
in  the  house,  or  out  driving,  or  overseeing  the 
new  houses,  which  were  progressing  rapidly, 
Salome's  one  thought  was  the  improvement  of 
conditions  at  the  Shawsheen  Mills. 

When  Marion  had  been  with  her  a  week, 
Salome  said  to  her  : 

"  Marion,  I  want  you  to  stay  with  me  all  the 
time." 

"  I  should  be  so  glad,"  replied  her  friend, 
"  but  I  can't  afford  it.  I  shall  have  to  go  out 
into  the  world  again,  before  long,  to  earn  my 
living,  dear ;  but  I  will  stay  here  as  long  as  I 
can. 

"  You  good  girl ! "  was  Salome's  answer. 
"  Why  not  stay  here  and  earn  your  living  ? 
I  want  a  companion,  shall  very  soon  need  a 
secretary,  and  as  soon  as  I  get  things  in  run- 
ning order,  ought  to  have  a  woman  like  you 
to  help  draw  in  my  people.  You  need  a  con- 
genial place  at  a  comfortable  salary.  Now, 
why  not  stay  ?  I  will  pay  you  a  thousand 
dollars  a  year." 

Marion  drew  a  breath  of  astonishment. 


,i*alomc  ^S^hcjiavrt,  ^Icfovmcv.  120 

"  It  isn't  worth  that,"  she  said  ;  "  Madame 
Blanc  only  paid  me  seven  hundred." 

"  Madame  Blanc  is  not  fixing  a  scale  of 
wages  for  me,"  said  Salome ;  "  as  to  your 
'  worth,'  my  dear,  I  must  judge  of  that.  When 
we  get  fairly  at  work,  I  shall  give  you  enough 
to  do,  and  you  will  find  yourself  a  very  busy 
woman.  Besides,  if  I  had  a  young  man  to  do 
what  I  want  you  to  do  for  me,  he  would  ask  a 
thousand  dollars,  wouldn't  he  ?  And  why 
shouldn't  you  have  it?  Because  you  are  a 
woman  .'' 

Marion  was  not  demonstrative.  On  the  con- 
trary, she  had  a  great  deal  of  the  true  New 
England  reserve ;  hut  she  got  up  and  went  over 
to  her  friend,  put  both  arms  around  her  neck 
and  then cried. 

"  If  you  could  know  what  a  chance  this  is 
for  me  !  "  she  said  at  last.  "If  you  had  known 
what  a  dreary  thing  existence  had  become,  and 
wdiat  a  hopeless  prospect  I  had  in  the  future  ! 
And  now,  to  live  here  and  work  with  you, — in 
your  grand  scheme, — Oh,  Salome  !  "  And  she 
wept  again. 

"  Then  I  will  put  the  care  of  tlie  cottages 
into  your  hands  first  of  all,"  said  Salome,  patting 


130  ^'iil0mc  ^fe<;irat*4,  ^tioxma, 

her  clieek.  "  You've  kept  house  and  know 
what  one  ought  to  be  like  for  an  ordinary 
family, — what  things  are  necessary  for  the 
comfort  of  the  household  and  convenience  of 
the  housewife.  I  don't.  I  should  be  as  apt 
to  build  expensive  music-rooms  and  leave 
out  the  pantries,  as  any  way.  Go  ahead,  and 
get  up  as  nice  houses  as  you  can,  at  $1,500, 
$2,000  and  $2,500  a  piece.  Mr.  Villard 
thinks  none  of  the  employes  will  care  to  buy 
anything  more  expensive.  Here  is  the  archi- 
tect's address,"  and  she  handed  Marion  a  card. 

But  the  building  of  the  model  boarding- 
house  was  a  project  too  dear  to  Salome's  heart 
for  her  to  easily  relinquish  to  others.  Her 
plan,  as  she  had  presented  it  to  Villard  and 
Burnham,  grew  and  magnified  itself  until  her 
co-laborers  had  to  resort  to  all  sorts  of  argu- 
ments to  keep  her  from  wild  extravagance. 

She  had  begun  by  planning  for  the  factory- 
girls  a  house  which  should  be  really  a  home ; 
but  as  she  went  about  among  the  operatives, 
and  began  to  get  an  inkling  of  what  the  young 
men  of  the  mills  really  were,  of  the  bare,  des- 
olate dens  which  gave  them  shelter,  she  did 
not  wonder  that  they  resorted  to  the  streets  for 


^altfrnc  ^hcpavd,  l^cfarmcf.  131 

comfort  and  amusement.  She  began  to  see  how 
the  young  men  and  g-h-ls  who  entered  the  mills 
could  scarcely  help  drifting  into  low  and  un- 
worthy lives ;  and  she  grew  more  determined 
to  do  somethins:  to  raise  them  to  a  lii<>"her 
plane  of  living. 

Her  grandfather's  manuscripts  did  not  help 
her  much  here.  In  Newbern  Shepard's  day, 
the  factory-hand  had  not  sunk  to  such  igno- 
rance or  even  degradation,  as  he  has,  in  some 
instances,  in  later  times  ;  and  in  those  more 
democratic  times,  it  had  not  been  so  hard  for 
him  to  rise  above  the  level  of  his  kind.  In 
that  day,  too,  it  had  been  possible  for  him  to 
find  a  home,  in  the  true  sense  of  the  word, 
with  families  of  a  certain  degree  of  refinement. 
But  in  Salome's  more  modern  times,  she  saw, 
and  grieved,  that  the  factory  boarding-places 
were  of  the  sort  that  dragged  the  operatives 
down  and  kept  them  on  a  lower  plane,  even, 
than  the  Shawsheen  tenement  system. 

She  consulted  much  with  the  superintend- 
ents and  with  Marion.  She  visited  the  large 
cities  and  thoroughly  examined  the  young 
men's  and  young  women's  various  houses  and 
unions.     She  got  ideas  from  all,  but  a  perfected 


132  ^alomc  ^licpnvil,  ^Ufovmcv. 

plan  from  none.  Finally,  she  collaborated 
with  her  architect,  Robert  Fales,  and  soon  had 
her  model  boarding-house  on  paper.  After 
that  it  was  only  a  work  of  days  to  begin  on 
the  foundations  of  the  institution. 

The  operatives  at  the  Shawsheen  Mills  gazed 
on  all  these  changes  with  curious  interest, 
which,  however,  they  carefully  suppressed  when 
any  of  their  superiors  were  about.  The  aver- 
age independent  American  citizen,  as  he  exists 
among  workingmen,  does  not  care  to  pose  as 
an  object  of  even  partial  charity.  He  delights 
in  crying  out  against  Capital,  and  clamoring  for 
a  share  of  the  Profits ;  but  when  it  comes  to 
actual  taking  of  what  he  does  not  feel  he  has 
earned,  he  is  more  backward. 

The  Shawsheen  operatives,  in  spite  of  the 
promises  which  had  been  made,  had  gone  to 
work  again  with  little  hope  that  the  state  of 
affairs  for  them  would  be  any  better  in  future 
than  in  the  past.  As  days  went  by,  and  they 
saw  Salome  Shepard  come  to  the  mills  every 
morning,  and  knew  that  she  was  personally  inter- 
ested in  them  as  her  people,  they  were  skeptical 
of  any  results  for  good.  And  when  they  began 
to  hear  it  whispered  that  she,  a  woman,  was 


^alomr  ^^hrpnnt.  y*cfovmcr.  133 

the  actual  head  of  the  Shawsheen  Mills,  some 
of  them  talked  earnestly  of  leaving.  What  ! 
they — strong',  ahle-bodied,  skilled  mechanics — 
work  under  a  woman  ? 

But  they  didn't  go.  A  dull  season  was  upon 
them,  and  work  scarce.  Other  miUs  were  shut- 
ting down  and  sending  their  operatives  into 
two  months  of  enforced  idleness.  The  Shaw- 
sheen  hands  were  forced  to  stay  where  they 
were  and  be  thankful  for  a  chance  to  work. 

Then,  as  the  story  that  they  were  to  be 
furnished  with  new  and  better  homes  jrained 
credence  among  them,  their  first  real  interest 
dawned.  Many  did  not  believe  their  condi- 
tions would  be  bettered ;  many,  even,  did  not 
care ;  and  most  of  them  grumbled  because 
their  rents  would  probably  be  high,  and  said 
the  new  buildings  were  only  a  means  to  grind 
the  poor  and  extort  more  money  from  them,  to 
put  into  a  rich  woman's  pocket.  Such  is  the 
thankless  task  of  the  philanthropist. 

Salome  heard  something  of  this,  but  did  not 
allow  the  knowledge  to  disquiet  her. 

"  A  few  months  will  convince  them,"  she 
said,  quietly.  "  No  wonder  they  are  on  the 
lookout  for  oppression  and  extortion.     As  near 


134  Salome  ^Ucimnt,  ^cfavmfv. 

as  I  can  judge,  this  factory  has  long  been  run 
on  a  plan  to  warrant  them  in  such  a  belief." 
And  this  was  all  she  ever  said  against  Otis 
Greenough's  method  of  administering  affairs 
at  the  mills. 

As  the  summer  went  by,  Salome's  friends  in 
the  town  began  to  wonder  at  her  extravagant 
outlay,  as  they  called  it.  They  prophesied  that 
she  would  soon  tire  of  her  new  amusement,  and 
leave  the  houses  unfinished,  when  her  projects 
would  fall  flat.  Some  of  them  came  to  her  and 
remonstrated,  on  the  ground  that  her  inexpe- 
rience in  financial  affairs  was  cause  enough  for 
her  leaving  the  Shawsheen  Mills  and  the 
employes  as  they  had  been.  But  invariably 
she  replied,  that  if  she  had  chosen  to  build 
herself  a  million-dollar  castle,  they  would  have 
approved  of  her ;  but  because  she  proposed 
to  spend  a  half-million  on  the  mill  property, 
all  of  which  she  felt  sure  would  return  to  her 
some  day  with  interest,  she  was  called  extrava- 
gant and  foolish. 

"  But  if  you  had  built  the  million-dollar 
house,"  said  Mrs.  Greenough,  "  it  would  have 
been  a  great  thing  for  the  place.  Think  what 
an  ornament  to  Shepardtown  it  would  be  !  " 


^abww  ^Ucinuut,  ^^^fjjvmcv.  135 

"And  think  what  an  imjirovement — what  a 
great  thing-  for  Shepardtown — it  will  be  to 
tear  away  those  miserable,  tumbledown  tene- 
ments on  Shawsheen  alley,  and  to  add  a  hun- 
dred neat  and  cosy  houses  to  the  hill,"  she 
retorted.  "  And,  besides,  you  haven't  seen  my 
— well,  my  Institution  (I  haven't  named  it 
yet).  Think  what  an  ornament  that  will  be 
to  the  place." 

But  as  nobody  realized  what  the  "  Institu- 
tion "  of  her  dreams  was  to  be,  Salome  got  no 
sympathy  from  her  friends.  Curiosity  increased 
on  all  hands,  as  the  summer  waned  and  an 
immense  brick  structure  grew  apace  on  the  hill. 
It  had  a  square,  dome-like  center,  with  huge 
wings  on  each  side.  But  the  workmen  were 
sworn  to  secrecy,  and  nobody  was  allowed  to  go 
inside  from  the  time  the  buildins:  was  far 
enough  advanced  to  allow  of  its  entrances  being 
fastened  up. 


136  <^alomc  ^hfjjjmH,  ^Ufovmrv. 


XII. 

It  was  finished  at  last.  The  plasterers  and 
painters  and  plumbers  had  done  their  last 
stroke  of  work  and  departed,  leaving  the  keys 
with  Salome,  as  she  had  requested.  On  the 
same  afternoon,  she  sent  for  Robert  Fales,  and 
together  they  showed  Burnham  and  Villard, 
with  Marion  Shaw  and  Mrs.  Soule — who  was 
as  anxious  as  any  of  them  to  see  the  place, 
although  she  would  not  own  it — over  the  new 
building. 

A  broad  flight  of  stone  steps  led  up  to  the 
main  entrance.  The  wooden  framework,  which 
had  concealed  the  fagade,  had  been  taken  down, 
and  there,  over  the  massive  doorway,  was  the 
name  of  Salome's  "  Institution,"  carved  in  red 
sandstone — "  Newbern  Shepard  Hall." 

"  Why  not  simply  Shepard  Hall  ? "  said 
Burnham,  as  they  stood  looking  up  at  it. 


^atamc  ^Ucpant,  ^Ufovmcv.  137 

"Or  Salome  Slieparcl  HaU?"  put  in  Mrs. 
Soule's  voice,  for  she  felt  that  it  would  be  like 
the  rest  of  her  niece's  folly  to  have  her  name 
carved  in  stone  up  there. 

"Auntie!"  exclaimed  Salome  reprovingly; 
then,  turning-  to  Geoffrey  Burnham — "  Shepard 
Hall  might  have  meant  me,  or  it  might  have 
meant  my  father,  or  the  Avhole  race  of  us  in 
general.  This  building  is  a  memorial  to  New- 
bern  Shepard,  not  to  his  family.  How  do  you 
like  the  design  of  the  fagade  ?  " 

The  building  was  of  red  brick,  with  massive 
trimmings  of  red  sandstone,  and  was  substan- 
tial and  useful  in  general  appearance,  rather 
than  ornate. 

"  Ten  times  as  expensive  as  you  needed," 
was  her  aunt's  comment. 

"  Yes,"  answered  Burnham,  to  whom  the  re- 
mark was  directed.  "  A  cheap,  wooden  building 
would  have  answered  the  purpose,  I  should  say." 

"  Perhaps,"  laughed  Salome  ;  "  but  I  am  not 
putting  up  wooden  monuments  to  my  grand- 
father's memory.  Besides,  you  don't  know  my 
purpose,  yet." 

"  Something  quixotic  and  unnecessary,  I'm 
afraid,  my  dear,"  answered  Mrs.  Soule. 


138  ^abmf  ^Hcimnt,  lUfovm^r. 

Salome  did  not  answer  but  led  the  way  up 
the  stairway,  and  unlocked  the  heavy  doors 
These  opened  into  a  vestibule  leading  into  a 
large  room  fitted  up  with  bookcases  and 
tables. 

"  This  is  the  library,"  said  she.  "  Now,  see 
the  two  reading-rooms,  one  on  each  side.  One 
is  for  the  girls,  and  one  for  the  young  men." 

They  passed  out  into  the  one  designed  for 
the  girls, — a  pleasant  airy  room  with  plenty  of 
light  and  space.  The  walls  were  tinted  and 
the  woodwork  was  in  the  natural  finish.  Noth- 
ing in  the  way  of  furnishing  had,  of  course, 
been  done.  Beyond  the  reading-room  was  an- 
other large  class-room,  and  opening  from  it 
were  several  smaller  ones.  These  all  occupied 
one  wing  of  the  new  building. 

"  What  do  you  propose  to  have  done  with 
all  these  rooms  ?  "  asked  some  one. 

Salome  looked  over  to  John  Villard  and 
smiled. 

"  I've  read  and  studied  *  All  Sorts  and  Con- 
ditions of  Men  '  to  some  purpose,"  she  said  ; 
"  I  propose,  as  time  goes  on,  to  have  various 
practical  and  useful  things  taught  the  girls 
here.     Dressmaking  for  instance,  and  millinery 


^atomc  ^hcpant,  ^{cfovmtr.  139 

and  domestic  science.     The   conveniences  for 
that,  though,  are  in  the  basement." 

She  led  the  Avay  by  a  flight  of  stairs  that  led 
from  a  side-entrance,  at  the  end  of  the  wing,  to 
the  basement.  There  was  a  spacious  hall  with 
rows  of  hooks  to  hang  garments  on.  From 
this,  opened  a  large  and  pleasant  dining-room. 
Under  the  main  portion  of  the  building  was  a 
o-reat  kitchen  with  ranges  and  all  the  modern 
appliances  of  a  hotel  kitchen,  though  on  a 
smaller  scale. 

"Isn't  this  rather  elaborate  for  a  factory 
boar  din  P'-house  ?  "  asked  Burnham  ;  "  for,  I 
take  it,  that  is  one  of  your  objects,  at  least,  if 
not  the  primary  one." 

"  I  approve  of  this,"  said  Mrs.  Soule  judi- 
cially. "  It's  poor  poKcy  to  fit  out  a  kitchen 
with  cheap  stuff.  Give  servants  the  best  of 
everything  to  do  with,  and  teach  them  how  to 
take  care  of  them." 

"Miss  Shepard  has  gone  over  the  subject 
very  carefully,"  said  Mr.  Fales,  "  and,  I  must 
say,  has  shown  most  excellent  judgment  in 
everything.  As  you  say,  madam,  it's  only 
money  wasted  to  put  cheap  stuff  into  a  building 
like  this." 


^" 


140  ^ixUxm  $\it\m\%  gcfavmcv. 

"  Now,  look  throiigli  the  j^antries  and  larder 
and  laundry,"  Salome  interrupted;  "  I  think, 
for  a  woman  who  knows  absolutely  nothing  of 
the  details  of  housekeeping,  I've  excelled  my- 
self." She  spoke  boastfully  and  shook  her  head 
at  Marion,  at  the  close  of  her  speech. 

"  How  much  of  it  did  Miss  Shaw  plan  ?  " 
slyly  asked  Geoffrey  Burnham. 

"Every  bit  of  it,  below  the  main  floor," 
responded  Salome.  "  Since  you  seem  incap- 
able of  believing  that  I  did  it,  I  may  as  well 
own  that  Marion  and  Mr.  Fales  planned  the 
whole  of  the  basement,  and  that  I,  in  my  igno- 
rance, could  only  look  on  and  admire.  But 
they  did  so  well  that  now  I  am  inclined  to  take 
all  th6  glory  to  myself." 

They  passed  through  the  basement,  coming 
up  at  the  other  end  of  the  building,  and  found 
themselves  in  the  young  men's  wing.  Here, 
besides  the  reading-rooms  and  class-room, 
was  another  fitted  with  two  or  three  work- 
benches. 

"  I  propose  to  give  them  a  chance  to  take 
an  industrial  education,"  said  Salome,  "  if  they 
should  want  it." 

"  I  declare  !  "  ejaculated  Mrs.  Soule.      "  To 


^alomc  .^Ucpavrt,  ^Ufovmcv.  141 

give  skilled  mechanics  a  chance  to  take  lessons 
at  the  work-bench  !     You  are  out  of  your  mind, 

child." 

"I  didn't  plan  it  for  skilled  mechanics, 
auntie,"  said  Salome  gently,  "  although  they 
may  come  if  they  want  to.  But  you  know, 
or  ought  to,  that  the  majority  of  our  men  can 
only  i^erform  one  kind  of  work.  They  may  he 
nearly  perfect  in  their  special  branch,  but  are 
almost  helpless  when  it  comes  to  handhng  the 
hammer  and  saw  and  chisel.  If  they  learn  the 
proper  use  of  these  things,  it  will  not  only  in- 
crease their  knowledge  in  that  direction,  it  will 
broaden  them  in  other  w^ays." 

"  I  don't  see  how,"  persisted  her  aunt. 

"  Besides,"  put  in  John  Villard,  "  if  it  does 
no  other  good,  if  the  experiment  keeps  a  few 
of  our  fellows  off  the  street  at  night  and 
develops  a  new  taste,  it  will  be  worth  while." 

"  Well,  perhaps  you  are  right,"  said  Mrs. 
Soule,  "but  no  such  philosophy  or  philan- 
thropy was  taught  in  my  day." 

"  '  The  world  do  move,'  auntie,"  laughed 
Salome.     "  Now,  shall  we  go  upstairs  ?  " 

A  broad  flight  of  steps  from  the  hallway  at 
the  end  of  the  wing  led  up  to  the  second  floor, 


142  ^al0mf  ^hfjmvit,  |lcfcrvmfv. 

which  was  just  Hke  the  one  on  the  gu-ls'  wing. 
Upstairs,  the  broad  corridor  ran  through  the 
middle  o£  the  wing,  with  bedrooms  opening 
from  either  side.  In  the  main  body  of  the 
buikling,  under  the  dome,  was  a  large  hall, 
fitted  up  with  movable  seats,  and  having  a 
raised  platform  at  the  front. 

"  This  is  the  pride  of  my  heart,"  Salome 
announced,  as  she  ushered  her  friends  into  it. 
"  If  any  one  dares  to  criticise  it,  Avoe  be  unto 
him !  Mr.  Burnham,  what  fault  can  you  find 
with  this  ?  " 

They  all  laughed  at  her  inconsistency. 

"  I  should  not  dare  make  it  known,  if  I  had 
any,"  he  said.  "  But  may  I  ask  what  it  is 
for  ?  " 

"  Why,  to  hold  meetings  in,  and  lectures  and 
things,"  she  answered,  quickly  ;  "  what  did  you 
suppose  ?" 

"  Oh  !  And  for  the  Labor  Unions  to  con- 
gregate in  and  plan  how  they  may  overthrow 
and  destroy  you,  I  suppose,"  scoffed  Burn- 
ham.  "  And  it  is  a  capital  place  to  breed  the 
next  strike." 

"  There  will  be  no  *  next  strike,'  "  was  the 
confident  answer.     "  And  as  for  the  rest,  wait 


<^aIomc  ^hcpafd,  ^(fovmcv.  143 

and  see.  I  had  the  seats  all  movable  because 
once  in  a  while  there  will  be  a  party,  and  they 
will  want  the  floor  for  dancing." 

"  Salome  !     Not  dancing  ?  "  cried  her  aunt. 

"  Why  not  ?  The  floor  is  an  excellent 
one  for  dancing.  I  saw  to  that  myself," 
said  she,  purposely  misunderstanding  her  rela- 
tive. 

"  You  are  not  ffoino;  to  let  them  have  their 
low  dances  here  ?  "  Mrs.  Soule's  tone  showed 
how  much  the  idea  horrified  her. 

"  Low  dances  ?  Certainly  not,"  said  her 
niece.  "  But  we  are  going  to  show  them  how 
to  have  something  better.  We  are  going  to 
lift  them  above  wanting  a  low  entertainment  of 
any  kind,  and  teach  them  how  such  things 
are  carried  on  by  better  people, — by  us,  for 
example." 

"  Salome,  you  don't  mean  me  to  understand 
that  you  are  going  to  come  and  dance  here, 
yourself  ?  " 

"  Perhaps,  though  I  had  not  thought  of  it. 
But  why  not  ?"  continued  the  perverse  niece. 
"  Mr.  Villard,  will  you  lead  the  first  figure  with 
me,  on  our  opening  night  ?  " 

"  With  the  greatest  pleasure  in  the  worldj" 


144  ^ulomc  ^hciKU'tl,  ^Ufavtncv. 

said  he,  with  a  thrill  at  his  heart  which  he  did 
not  recognize. 

Mrs.  Soule  sat  down  on  a  convenient  window- 
seat. 

"  What  would  your  father  say?"  she  mur- 
mured. 

'"'  I  never  knew  my  father  well  enough  to 
judge."  Salome  answered,  with  a  slight  tinge 
of  bitterness  in  her  tone.  "  But  I  know  what 
my  grandfather  would  say.  I  am  going  to  put 
a  piano  in  here, — or  would  you  have  an  organ  ? 
— and  I  intend  that  this  hall  shall  be  the  rally- 
ing place  of  the  young  people.  I'm  also  going 
to  give  a  course  of  entertainments  here  during 
the  winter,  twice  a  week ;  I'm  not  going  to  begin 
with  lectures  and  heavy  '  intellectual  treats  ; ' 
but  I  will  gradually  lead  up  to  them  with  con- 
certs and  even  a  minstrel  show  or  two." 

"  Salome,"  gasped  her  aunt  feebly  from  the 
window-sill. 

"  You  see,  if  we  begin  by  shooting  over  their 
heads,  they  won't  come  at  all,"  said  Salome. 
"But  if  we  begin  with  something  light  and 
amusing,  and  not  too  far  above  their  level,  and 
gradually  raise  the  tone  of  the  entertainments, 
they'll  find  themselves  attending  lectures  and 


J^alomc  ^hcpavrt,  ^{cfovmcv.  145 

other  sugar-coated  forms  of  intellectual  better- 
ment, and  like  them ;  and  never  mistrust  that  I 
am  working  out  a  mission  on  their  unsuspect- 
ing heads." 

"  I'm  glad  you  realize  something  of  their 
present  intellectual  condition,"  said  John  Vil- 
lard,  who  had  been  unusually  silent  and  grave 
while  looking  over  the  new  building;  "and 
realize  that  it's  only  gradually  that  we  can 
bring  them,  as  a  class,  uj)  to  a  higher  grade  as 
intelligent  young  people." 

"  Oh,  I  do,"  said  Salome,  "  I've  seen  too  much 
of  them,  myself,  this  summer.  At  first,  I  was 
appalled  by  the  absolute  lack  of  common  knowl- 
edge among  the  average  girls.  But  there  are 
a  few,  I  know,  who  have  already  improved  the 
slight  advantages  they've  had  ;  and  these  few 
I  shall  rely  on  to  help  me  by  their  influence  in 
raising  the  rest  ;  the  '  little  leaven,'  you  know. 
It  seems  to  me,  that  only  by  raising  the  in- 
tellectual condition,  and  the  educational  aspira- 
tion, can  we  hope  to  accomplish  anything  of 
permanent  value  to  the  mills." 

"  That    is    the    only    way,"   was    Villard's 

response.      "And,  Miss    Shepard,"   he     said, 

hurriedly,  for  the  others  had  already  scattered 

10 


146  J>jil0mc  ^hcpitvtl,  llcfotmcir. 

through  the  girls'  wing,  leaving  them  alone, 
"I  want  to  say  that,  as  I  believe  you  have 
found  the  only  true  solution  to  the  main  ques- 
tions of  the  labor  problem,  I  pledge  myself  to 
heartily  sustain  you  in  every  way.  You  have 
only  to  command  me,  and  I  am  ready." 

Why  did  Salome  turn  away  to  hide  the  vivid 
blush  that  suddenly  swept  over  her  face  ? 

"  I  am  sure  of  that,"  she  said,  presently,  with 
an  effort,  "  I  have  counted  on  you  from  the 
first.  I  shall  try,  by  my  own  personal  efforts, 
to  help  the  factory  girls.  But  I  shall  depend 
on  you,  and  you  alone,  to  manage  the  young 
men. 

"  I  shall  not  fail  you,"  was  all  he  said,  as 
Salome  locked  the  door  of  the  hall  behind  them, 
and  they  went  over  the  girl's  wing  to  find  the 
others. 

The  bedrooms  on  this  wing  were  like  those 
on  the  other  side.  There  were  ample  closets 
and  plenty  of  light  and  air  and  window  space. 
The  rooms  were  not  spacious,  but  they  were 
complete  in  every  respect,  and  a  vast  improve- 
ment on  anything  the  Shawsheen  mill  girls  had 
ever  seen. 

"  I  did  not  want  large  rooms,"  said  Salome; 


^alowc  .^Ucpavtl.  |Ufovmcr.  147 

"  I  think  it  is  better  to  put  not  more  than  two 
girls  in  a  room.  I  shall  put  two  single  beds  in 
each,  and  fit  up  the  rooms  with  everything 
necessary  for  comfort  ;  then  I  shall  insist  that 
the  girls  keep  their  own  rooms  in  the  best  of 
order.  Oh,  you'll  see  what  a  disciplinarian  I 
shall  be  !  " 

The  third  floor  was  entirely  given  up  to  bed- 
rooms, the  two  wings  being  entirely  separated 
from  each  other  l)y  the  upper  portion  of  the 
hall  which  extended  to  the  top  of  the  dome. 
Every  part  of  the  building  was  beautifully 
finished,  w^ell  lighted,  and  planned  for  general, 
practical  convenience. 

"  There,  if  I  never  do  anything  else,"  said 
Salome,  after  they  had  come  out  of  the  place, 
and  stood  looking  back  at  it,  "  I  shall  feel 
that  I  have  raised  a  suitable  monument  to  old 
Newbern  Shepard.  I  believe,  if  he  could  have 
lived  until  now,  that  he  would  have  done  the 
same  thing  himself — only  better." 

"  He  couldn't.  Miss  Shepard,"  said  Villard. 
"  It  is  absolutely  perfect." 

"  Yes,"  admitted  Burnham,  "  it  is.  But  do 
you  realize.  Miss  Shepard,  what  an  elephant 
you've  got  on  your  hands  ?     It's  going  to  be  a 


148  ^'alome  .^kpant,  ^tfaxwtx, 

fearful  tax  on  your  mind  and  strength  to  keep 
it  up,  and  to  carry  out  half  you've  planned." 

"  Well,  what  were  health  and  strength  given 
me  for  ?  "  Salome  asked,  with  the  abruptness 
which  sometimes  characterized  her. 

"  Most  young  women  find  a  solution  to  that 
question  without  running  an  eleemosynary  in- 
stitution," was  Burnham's  mental  comment  ; 
but  he  said  nothing. 

"  I  expect  to  see  my  happiest  days  while  I 
have  the  care  of  this  establishment.  I'm  sure 
I  never  was  so  happy  as  I've  been  for  the  past 
six  months.  Now,  I  must  finish  this  great 
house.  I  shall  need  all  the  suggestions  and 
practical  aid  you  can  each  give  me,  especially 
about  the  libraries  and  reading-rooms.  As  to 
the  selection  of  books,  I'm  going  to  begin  with 
a  comparative  few.  Will  you  two  gentlemen 
come  up  to  the  house  to-morrow  night,  pre- 
pared to  help  make  out  a  suitable  list?  " 

"  You  forget  that  I  have  to  go  to  New  York 
to-morrow,"  said  Burnham.  "  But  Villard  can 
go ;  and  I  can  help  afterwards,  you  know." 

"  As  soon  as  we  get  everything  in  readiness," 
pursued  Salome,  "  we  will  have  a  formal  open- 
ing.    We'll  have  music  and  something  good 


^alomc  ^hcpavrt,  ^Icfovmcv.  140 

to  eat,  and  a  little  talking-,  and  perhaps  a  dance 
to  close  with."  Salome  looked  wickedly  at 
her  aunt,  but  the  latter  paid  no  heed.  "  Re- 
member your  promise,  Mr.  Villard." 

"  I  shall  not  be  the  one  to  forget  it,"  he 
answered. 

They  separated  very  soon,  Salome  and  her 
aunt  and  Marion  taking'  the  architect  home 
with  them,  and  Burnham  and  Villard  going 
back  to  the  mills. 

But  all  through  the  afternoon,  and  all 
through  the  watches  of  the  night,  one  sentence 
repeated  itself  to  John  Villard's  heart,  com- 
forting and  hel})ing  him,  strangely :  "  I  have 
counted  on  you  from  the  first." 


150  ^alomc  ^Uejmiut,  ^ttatrntv. 


XIII. 

It  was  Halloween  when  the  new  bmlcling 
was  formally  opened.  Up  to  that  time,  only  a 
few  privileged  persons  were  allowed  to  enter 
its  sacred  portals;  but  every  one  connected 
with  the  Shawsheen  Mills  was  invited  to  be 
present  at  the  opening. 

On  the  hill,  back  of  the  mills,  stood  one 
hundred  new  cottages,  each  costing  from 
fifteen  to  twenty-five  hundred  dollars,  and  all 
ready  for  occupancy ;  but  as  yet  none  of  the 
mill-hands  had  seen  the  inside  of  one  of  them. 

It  had  been  a  work  of  no  small  magnitude 
to  find  a  suitable  matron  for  the  Newbern 
Shepard  Hall.  But,  finally,  the  widow  of  a 
former  physician  in  Sliepardtown,  a  woman  of 
excellent  character  and  judgment,  and  with 
some  experience  as  matron  of  a  young  ladies' 
school,  was  secured  and  duly  installed  in  the 


^i\\om  ^hcpavd,  ^Ufonncv.  151 

two  pleasant  rooms  set  apart  for  her  in  the 
girls'  wing. 

John  ViUard  had  relieved  Salome's  mind  o£ 
another  perplexity,  by  offering  to  take  up  per- 
manent quarters  for  himself  in  the  young 
men's  side ;  for,  although  she  had  felt  the 
necessity  of  such  an  arrangement,  she  had  not 
liked  to  ask  him  to  give  up  what  she  rightly 
guessed  were  more  congenial  apartments  in  a 
quiet  corner  of  the  toAvn.  But  he  felt  that  his 
influence  would  be  needed  at  the  Hall,  and 
that  he  could  do  the  work  which  he  hoped  to 
do  much  better,  if  he  were  in  the  midst  of  the 
young  men  whom  he  wished  to  interest  in 
many  ways.  And  before  Halloween,  he  was 
comfortably  settled  in  two  rooms  at  the  Hall. 

The  evening  came,  clear  and  cold ;  such  an 
evening  as  only  the  last  of  October  can  give. 
The  building  was  brilliantly  lighted  from  top 
to  bottom,  and  decorated  with  flags  and  ever- 
green. Outside,  Chinese  lanterns  and  bunting 
lined  both  sides  of  the  walk  up  to  the  main 
entrance,  and  helped  to  give  it  a  holiday  air.  A 
band  of  street-musicians,  who  happened  to  be 
in  town,  had  been  engaged  and  were  stationed 
in  front  of  the  building,  where  their  tolerably 


152  Salome  Jihcpavtt,  fvrfarm^f. 

harmonious  strains  gave  just  as  much  pleasure 
to  the  not  over-critical  audience  that  was  fast 
assembling-,  as  Thomas'  or  Seidl's  men  could 
have  afforded  them. 

Inside,  Salome  waited  impatiently.  With- 
out any  premeditated  plan,  Villard  and  Burn- 
ham  placed  her  and  Marion,  with  Mrs.  Soule 
in  the  background — for  she  "  declined  to  be 
introduced  to  these  persons  " — in  the  center  of 
the  library ;  and  forming  themselves  into  a 
reception  committee,  they  drafted  into  service 
a  few  of  the  best-appearing  young  men,  who 
presented  every  comer  to  the  owner  of  the 
mills  and  her  friend.  After  oivinof  each  one  a 
cordial  welcome  and  hand-shake,  Salome  told 
them  they  were  free  to  inspect  the  new  build- 
ing as  they  pleased;  and,  consequently,  every 
mill-hand,  accompanied  by  every  other  member 
of  his  or  her  family,  went  critically  over  the 
wonderful  new  building,  which  seemed  to  their 
unaccustomed  eyes  a  structure  of  unwonted 
magnificence,  and  furnished  in  a  most  luxurious 
style. 

It  had  been  fitted  up  inexj)ensively,  but  with 
the  utmost  good  taste.  No  carpets  were  on 
the  floors,  but  American   rugs  abounded  wher- 


fatomc  ^Ucpuvrt,  ^Ufovmcv.  153 

ever  they  had  seemed  necessary.  The  library 
furniture  was  of  plain,  substantial  oalv,  like  the 
heavy  woodwork  of  the  room.  Throughout 
the  rest  of  the  house,  bedrooms,  dining-rooms, 
and  class-rooms  were  furnished  with  strong, 
neat,  ash  furniture.  There  were  a  few  good 
eno-ravings  on-  the  walls  of  the  principal  rooms, 
and  the  bookcases  were  about  half-filled  with 
literature  of  a  harmless  and  interesting,  if  light 
quality.  They  had  all  agreed  it  would  not  be 
best  to  fill  the  shelves  at  first,  but  to  watch  the 
popular  taste  and  to  "  leave  room  for  improve- 
ment," as  Marion  said. 

The  operatives  were  simply  astonished  at 
what  they  saw.  Some  were  even  yet  incredu- 
lous, and  Avhispered  that  they  would  not  be  will- 
ino-  nor  able  to  live  in  such  a  place ;  but  many 
of  the  girls'  eyes  brightened  as  they  inspected 
their  new  quarters,  and  showed  a  determination, 
on  the  part  of  their  owners,  to  come  in  for  some 
of  the  good  times  they  saw  in  store.  It  is  doubt- 
ful if  even  the  lowest  ones  there  did  not  feel  a 
new  self-respect  creeping  up  in  their  hearts. 
Dress  may  not  make  the  man,  but  surroundings 
often  do  the  woman. 

By    half-past    eight    the    stream    of    people 


154  (^atome  <#'l«jmnt,  ^efovmev. 

stopped  pouring  through  the  big  front  doors. 
Everybody  had  come  in,  shaken  hands  with 
Salome  and  Marion,  and  passed  along,  scatter- 
ino;  themselves  over  the  buildino'. 

"  Now  let's  get  every  one  into  the  hall, 
above,"  said  Salome,  "  and  have  a  little  talking 
and  some  music." 

It  was  some  little  time  before  the  crowd  of 
visitors  could  be  gathered  in  one  place,  but 
after  a  while  the  hall  was  well  filled,  and  the 
musicians  installed  in  their  place.  The  sound 
of  the  band,  indoors,  proved  an  effectual  sum- 
mons for  the  stragglers.  For  the  first  time, 
Salome,  on  the  platform,  faced  a  surging,  eager 
crowd  of  her  own  people  in  Newbern  Shepard 
Hall. 

She  had  wanted  one  of  her  two  "  faithful 
henchmen "  to  take  the  lead  to-night ;  but 
they  had  each  refused,  saying  she  was  better 
fitted  than  they ;  that  it  was  eminently  her  own 
affair  and  not  theirs,  and  that  the  success  of 
the  opening  depended  on  her  alone.  The 
last  argument  was  enough,  and,  much  to 
Mrs.  Soule's  horror  at  seeing  "  Cora  de  Bour- 
dillon's  daughter  "  in  such  a  plight,  Salome 
presided    over    her    first    meeting, — "  exactly 


^jilomc  .^hcparrt,  ^Ufovmcv.  155 

as   if  she  were  one  o£  those  '  woman's  riofhts 


'& 


When  the  musicians  had  finished,  Salome 
stepped  forward,  and  not  without  some  inward 
quaking,  made  her  first  speech. 

It  was  an  occasion  the  Shawsheen  Mill  hands 
never  forgot.  Salome,  always  well  and  appro- 
priately dressed,  had  not  slighted  them  by  refus- 
ing to  appear  at  her  best.  She  wore  a  white 
Clnna  silk  costume,  rightly  thinking  her  young 
people  would  be  readily  reached  by  the  gos- 
pel of  good  clothes.  Her  gown  was  simply 
made,  but  fitted  exquisitely  her  well-propor- 
tioned figure.  Neck  and  wrists  Avere  finished 
Avitli  beautiful  old  point  lace,  and  she  did  not 
scorn  to  wear  her  grandmother's  diamonds. 

Her  attractive  appearance,  her  cordial 
and  interested  manner,  and  her  winning 
voice  had  pleaded  her  cause  with  the  critical 
operatives  before  she  had  uttered  a  half-dozen 
sentences.  Her  sincerity  and  earnestness  went 
straight  to  their  sensibilities,  and,  before  she 
had  suspected  it,  every  heart  in  the  room  was 
hers. 

"My  dear  friends,"  she  began,  "I 
never  made  a  speech  in   my  life,   and  cannot 


156  Salome  ^Ufpavtl,  |>cfovmer. 

now.  I  never  stood  on  a  platform  before  ;  and 
only  my  interest  in  every  one  of  you  brings  me 
here  to-niglit.  I  only  want  to  say  that  this 
building,  which  you  see  now  for  the  first  time, 
and  which  I  hope  will  prove  a  happy  home  for 
many  of  you,  is  built  to  my  grandfather's 
memory.  Some  who  are  present  to-night  re- 
member him  and  love  him  still,  I  hope." 

Here  several  gray-haired  men  in  the  audience 
nodded  their  heads,  and  one  was  heard  to  mut- 
ter, "  Ay,  ay,  we  do." 

"  If  he  had  lived,  I  think  everything 
in  the  factory  would  have  been  different. 
Your  lives  would  have  been  different ;  and  mine, 
too,  perhaps.  For  one  thing,  I  don't  believe 
you  and  I  would  have  grown  up  strangers  to 
each  other.  You  know,  by  this  time,  I  am  sure, 
that  I  have  a  glorious  plan  for  making  the 
Shawsheen  Mills  the  best  on  earth. 

''  Not  by  tearing  down  mills  and  building 
new  and  more  elegant  ones  ;  not  alone  by  mak- 
ing costly  improvements  ;  but  by  having — and 
mind,  this  is  the  only  way  it  can  be  done, — by 
havinor  the  best  and  most  conscientious  and  in- 
telligent  class  of  operatives  in  this  country, — 
and  that  will  mean,  of    course,  in   the  world. 


^^alumc  .^hcpiu'tl,  |]cformcr.  157 

Now,  you  all  know  I  cannot  do  this  alone  ; 
every  one  of  you  has  a  part  in  carrying  out 
this  plan  of  mine. .  And  unless  you  all  agree 
to  help,  it  will  fail.  Don't  think  I  want  you  to 
do  any  impossible  thing.  I  only  want  every 
one  of  you  to  be  the  best  and  do  the  best  you 
possibly  can.  You  and  I  are  going  to  have 
some  splendid  times  in  the  future.  \ye're 
going  to  get  better  acquainted  with  each  other. 
We  are  going  to  become  real  friends.  On  your 
part,  you  are  going  to  deserve  my  good  opinion 
and  my  honest  friendship  ;  on  my  part,  I'm 
going  to  deserve  your  confidence  and  trust  and 
love  ;  and  between  us  we  are  going  to  show 
the  people  of  Massachusetts  that  a  cotton- 
factory  can  become  something  more  than  a 
great  machine  to  grind  out  yards  and  yards  of 
unbleached  sheeting  ;  and  that  its  operatives 
can  become  somethino;  better  and  greater  than 
so  many  smaller  wheels  in  the  machinery.  We 
will  show  that  a  factory  community  may  be,  and 
is,  a  prosperous,  happy,  contented  and  intel- 
ligent people." 

Some  of  the  young  men  could  contain  them- 
selves no  longer,  and  broke  into  enthusiastic 
applause  as  Salome  uttered  the  last  sentiment. 


158  .^atomc  ^^Itcpatut,  ^cfovmcv. 

Villard  chuckled  secretly  as  he  observed  that 
the  leaders  in  it  were  the  heads  of  the  com- 
mittees in  the  recent  strike. 

"  I'm  so  glad  you  agree  with  me,"  said 
Salome  heartily,  when  the  noise  had  subsided. 
"  Now,  I  want  to  tell  you  about  this  house. 
The  rooms  are  all  ready  for  occupancy.  I  think 
there  are  accommodations  for  all  who  care  to 
come.  You  are  to  leave  the  old  boarding- 
houses  on  the  corporation,  and  I  shall  have  them 
taken  down  at  once.  The  price  of  board  will 
remain  the  same  as  at  the  old  houses.  The 
reading-rooms  are  ready,  the  library  is  yours, 
and  we  shall  soon  find  means  of  entertainment 
and  work,  which  will  keep  us  all  contented,  I 
hope.  Mr.  Villard  will  occupy  rooms  on  this 
floor,  and  the  matron,  whom  I  will  shortly  pre- 
sent to  you,  will  be  on  the  girls'  wing.  There 
will  be  but  few  rules,  and  those,  I  trust,  not 
irksome.  I  cannot  imagine  that  any  one  will 
not  be  willing  to  obey  them.  The  new  houses 
on  the  hill  are  all  ready  for  the  families  on  the 
corporation  to  move  into.  A  few  of  the  larger 
and  better  houses  are  to  be  let  at  an  increased 
rental  ;  but  most  of  them  will  be  let  at  the 
old   rates.     We    have   a    plan,  by   which  any 


^ulomc  <^hc|)avd,  ^^cfovmrv.  159 

one  who  wants  to,  may,  after  a  little,  buy  a  house 
and  pay  for  it  by  monthly  installments,  just 
the  same  as  you  pay  rent.  But  I  will  not  go 
into  details.  Mr.  Fales  will  be  at  the  first  cot- 
tage on  the  hill,  and  you  can  all  make  arrange- 
ments with  him  at  any  time  after  to-morroAV 
morning.  Now  I  have  talked  too  long,  I  know, 
and  am  going  to  stop.  I  want  to  have  you 
hear  what  Mr.  Burnham  and  Mr.  Villard  have 
to  say ;  but  first  we  must  have  some  music." 

If  Salome  could  have  read  the  trembling 
waves  of  sympathy  and  reverence  which  were 
already  vibrating  from  the  hearts  of  the  young 
people  whom  she  had  addressed,  she  would  not 
have  sat  down  with  the  feeling  of  self-distrust 
and  failure  which  followed  her  speech.  The 
experience,  the  very  atmosphere,  was  unique  in 
the  history  of  industrial  experiments. 

The  two  superintendents  followed  the  band 
with  speeches  that  were  characteristic  of  each. 
Burnham's,  witty  and  tinged  with  sarcasm,  but 
friendly  and  cordial  enough  ;  and  Villard's, 
strong  Avitli  earnest  purpose  and  full  of  broth- 
erly love.  The  matron,  Mrs.  French,  was  pre- 
sented, also,  and  her  few  remarks  won  a 
friendly  recognition  among  the  young  folks  ; 


160  ^'alomc  ^hqmvd,  ^^cfovmcr. 

and  then  Salome  announced  that  the  meetino- 
would  adjourn  to  the  dining-rooms  in  the 
basement. 

More  refined  audiences  than  hers  have  not 
been  slow  to  exchange  an  atmosphere  of  sen- 
timent and  intellectuality  for  one  of  prosaic 
salads  and  cold  meats,  and  more  fanciful  ices 
and  coffee  ;  and  the  Shawsheen  operatives  were 
soon  encountering  a  more  aesthetic  collation, 
it  is  probable,  than  had  ever  been  served  them 
before.  But  as  it  was  a  bountiful  one,  they 
acted  well  their  part  and  found  no  fault. 

The  crownino-  delisfht  of  the  evenins:  came 
afterward.  The  young  men  were  asked  to 
lend  a  hand,  and  soon  the  floor  was  cleared 
in  the  large  hall,  and  word  was  circulated 
throuofh  the  house  that  the  evening:' s  enter- 
'tainment    would    close  with    dancino-.      Noth- 

CD 

ing  could  have  gone  so  far  toward  convincing 
the  mill-hands  that  Salome  had  meant  what 
she  said,  than  this  concession  to  their  social 
rights,  unless  it  was  the  fact  that  she,  herself, 
— the  haughty,  aristocratic  daughter  of  Floyd 
Shepard,  whom  they  had  looked  upon  with 
envy  not  unmixed  with  hatred, — that  she  should 
lead  the  dance  with  the  younger  superintend- 


Salome  ^hcpavrt,  ^^cfovmcr.  lOl 

ent.  An  orchestra  of  three  pieces  was  selected 
from  the  band  of  musicians,  and  Marion  and 
Salome,  by  turns,  furnished  the  piano  accom- 
paniment. Salome  claimed  her  promise  from 
Villard  and  danced  merrily,  not  only  the  first 
figure  but  several  others.  Mrs.  Soule  was  too 
much  overcome  by  all  she  had  seen  and  heard 
to  endure  this,  and  was  taken  home  ;  but  the 
others  staid  until  the  midnight  hour  tolled,  and 
the  dancers  had  all  bidden  good-night  to  their 
newly-developed  friends  and  gone  home  en- 
thusiastic in  their  praise  of  the  new  order  of 
things  in  the  mill  regime,  and,  especially,  of 
the  woman  who  was  opening  to  them  the  wider 
doors  of  opportunity. 

11 


162  <^aIouw;  ^liqmt'a,  "§cUxmtv, 


XIV. 

John  Villard  passed  a  wakeful  niglit  in 
his  new  rooms  at  Newbern  Shepard  Hall.  A 
strange  and  unwonted  feeling  had  taken  pos- 
session of  him ;  one  which  he  was  slow  to 
recognize,  but  which  cried  loudly  to  him  of 
his  folly  and  presumption,  even  while  it  refused 
to  be  put  off. 

After  that  first  dance,  Salome  had  paused  by 
an  open  window  and  he  had  stood  idly  watch- 
ing her.  Suddenly  a  tremendous  desire  to 
clasp  her  in  his  arms,  to  hold  her  close,  to 
demand  her  full  surrender,  swept  over  him.  So 
sudden  and  strong  was  the  passion,  that  it  was 
with  difficulty  that  he  kept  from  seizing  the 
soft  hand  which  lay  dangerously  near  on  the 
window-sill.  So  over-mastering  was  it,  that  he 
dared  not  stay  or  even  speak.  He  turned  on 
his  heel  and  went  out  under  the  (juiet  stars, 
alone. 


<^atomc  .^hcpavd,  ^^cfovmcr.  163 

In  the  days  when  she  had  held  aloof  from 
the  mill,  and  the  superintendents  scarcely  ever 
saw  her,  Geoffrey  Burnhani  had  reg^arded  her 
as  "  something  too  bright  and  good  for  human 
nature's  daily  food,"  looking  upon  her  as  im- 
mensely above  him,  socially  speaking.  But 
now  that  she  had  become  familiarly  associated 
with  them  in  the  daily  affairs  and  interests  of 
the  mill,  Burnhani  thought  of  her  as  having 
entered  the  field  of  good  comradeship,  and 
felt  that  friendly,  if  not  exactly  equal,  terms 
existed  between  them. 

With  John  Villard  it  was  different.  He  had 
begun  by  looking  with  a  certain  degree  of 
scorn  upon  a  woman  who  held  tremendous  in- 
terests so  lightly  as  she  had  done  in  the  old 
days.  He  had  felt  for  her  all  the  contemjDt  a 
man  who  does  not  know  them — a  man  with 
serious  purposes — may  feel  for  the  irresponsible 
butterflies  he  imagines  society-girls  to  be.  With 
her  deeper  interest  in  the  side  of  life  which 
interested  him,  and  her  efforts  to  raise  the 
standard  of  the  mills,  her  realization  of  what 
to  him  was  a  sacred  object  in  life  and  her  devo- 
tion to  it,  his  thought  of  her  had  changed. 

With  him,  familiar  every-day  contact  had  not 


1G4  ^alomc  ^Uqmwl,  ^Icfovmcr. 

made  of  lier  a  comrade,  in  the  ordinary  sense 
of  the  word.  Her  beauty  and  refinement;,  to- 
gether with  the  consciousness  which  never  left 
his  sensitive  soul,  that  it  was  her  wealth  and 
her  generosity  which  made  the  new  conditions 
possible, — these  things  only  served  to  raise  her 
to  a  pedestal  where  she  stood,  forever  apart 
from  the  rest  of  the  universe, — a  Avoman  to  be 
revered  and  worshijDed ;  not  a  woman  to  be 
aspired  to. 

Suddenly,  he  found  himself  in  love  with  her. 
The  tide  of  feeling  Avliich  swept  over  him  was 
one  that  no  man  could  mistake.  It  was  not 
enough  that  he  might  worship  her  on  her 
pedestal,  with  a  devotion  silent  and  unknown. 
He  wanted  to  hold  her  in  his  arms.  He  wanted 
her  eyes  to  droop  before  his  glance — not  to 
look  at  him  in  the  steady  fashion  he  knew  so 
well.  He  wanted  to  feel  her  heart  beating 
aofainst  his.     He  wanted  to  kiss  her. 

"  Poor  fool !  "  he  told  himself,  a  hundred 
times  that  nio-lit.  "  As  if  she  would  even  look 
at  me — a  poor  factory-boy,  self-educated,  self- 
trained,  and — yes,  self -conceited  !  " 

He  remembered  his  youth  ;  how  poor  he  had 
been;  how  he  had  studied   by  moonlight   to 


^'alomf  ^hcpavrt,  ^cfovuwt  iGa 

save  the  expense  of  a  candle  ;  how  he  had 
worked  all  through  his  hoyhood  in  a  cotton- 
mill,  that  he  might  help  his  older  sister  to  sup- 
port their  mother ;  how,  after  his  mother  had 
died  and  his  sister  married,  he  had  remained 
poor  and  alone  and  almost  friendless ;  how 
Httle  he  had  seen  and  kno^vn  of  women  ;  how 
utterly  lacking  he  was  in  all  the  graces  of  so- 
ciety and  the  refinements  that  he  supposed  to 
come  from  outward  polish  only  ;  in  short,  how 
utterly  at  variance  with  her  tastes  and  interests 
and  aims  his  life  had  heen. 

He  rememhered  her  life  of  luxury,  of  travel, 
of  careful  training,  and  the  indulgence  of 
cultivated,  aesthetic  tastes.  What  was  he,  that 
he  should  dare  to  even  think  of  her?  What 
but  a  presumptuous  fool,  that  he  should  dream 
of  touching  even  her  frail,  white  hand  ?  And 
yet,  her  eyes  had  drooped  when  they  met  his 
that  day,  when  they  all  went  over  the  Hall 
together.  Stay — what  did  it  mean  ?  Did  she  ? 
— could  she  feel  ? — but,  no.  He  was  a  pre- 
sumptuous idiot  to  think  of  it. 

He  paced  the  floor  for  an  hour.  Then  he 
lit  a  cigar  and,  under  its  peaceful  influences,  he 
tried  again  to  fix  his  mind  on  the  mills,  on  the 


166  $^Umt  $\u\mxA,  ^tiovmt, 

changed  condition  of  things,  on  anything, — 
but  her.  Still,  constantly,  over  and  over,  her 
tall,  white-robed  figure  took  shape  in  the  curl- 
ing wreaths  of  vapor,  and  he  fell  to  dreaming 
what  it  would  be  like  to  have  a  happy  home  of 
his  own,  with  her  as  its  center  and  joy. 

Again,  he  was  exasperated  with  himself  and 
called  himself  hard  names.  He  threw  away  the 
half-smoked  weed  and  resolutely  prepared  for 
bed ;  but  only  to  toss  wearily  about,  combat- 
ing himself  on  the  old  grounds  until  the  dawn, 
pushing  its  way  through  the  crevices  of  his 
blinds,  told  him  to  rise  and  set  his  face  again 
toward  the  workaday  world.  It  was  the  first 
time  that  hard-working,  earnest,  practical  John 
Villard  had  ever  pas-ied  a  sleepless  night. 

He  had  hardly  seen  how  he  was  to  bear  the 
daily  contact  with  Salome,  after  that.  He  was 
too  modest  and  too  honest  with  himself  to 
dream  that  there  might  be  any  hope  for  him. 
He  had,  at  one  time  during  the  night,  thought 
of  leaving  the  mills,  and  going  away  to  try  a 
new  and  easier  life  than  this  promised  to  be. 
Then  he  called  himself  a  coward  and  remem- 
bered her  words  : 

"  I  have  depended  on   you   from   the  first," 


^n\mu  ^\\t\)\\\%  lUfovmev.  167 

and  he  determined  to  stay,  cost  what  it  might. 
Besides,  all  his  hopes  and  interests  were  with 
the  Shawsheen  workers.  No :  he  could  not 
leave  them,  he  could  not  leave  her  now. 

So  he  went  forth  in  the  morning,  unchanged 
in  outward  appearance,  and  yet,  stronger  and 
better  for  this  first  grand  fight  with  himself. 
And  he  met  her  with  his  usual  deferential  bow 
and  smile  when,  by  and  by,  she  came  to  the 
office  for  her  usual  morning's  study  of  business 
affairs. 

It  was  unanimously  agreed  that  the  opening 
of  the  Hall  had  been  a  grand  success.  The 
mill-hands,  themselves,  seemed  to  feel  the  new 
attitude  into  which  they  had  suddenly  stepped, 
and  were  already  brighter  and  more  hopeful. 

On  her  way  to  the  mills,  Salome  had  met  a 
young  overseer,  who  was  hurrying  in  to  town 
for  something.  She  greeted  him  pleasantly, 
calling  him  by  name,  when,  to  her  surprise,  he 
stopped. 

"  I'd  like  to  thank  you.  Miss  Shepard,"  the 
burly  young  fellow  began,  '•  for  what  you  are 
doing  for  us.  If  all  the  employers  took  the 
interest  in  their  operatives  as  you  do  in  us, 
we'd  want  no  more  Unions,  and  there'd  be  no 


168  ^nUm  $}\t\mxAf  ^tfotmv, 

more  strikes.  I'm  thinking-  you've  got  ahead 
of  the  rest  of  us  on  the  labor  question,  and 
found  the  right  answer  to  it." 

"  I'm  very  glad  to  hear  you  say  that," 
Salome  answered,  with  a  glow  at  her  heart 
which  no  speech  from  a  man  of  the  world  had 
ever  produced.  "  I  want  to  find  it,  if  I  haven't 
yet.  But,  you  know  it  doesn't  depend  on 
me  alone.  I  may  try,  as  hard  as  I  can,  but  if 
you  people  don't  co-operate  with  me,  I'm  help- 
less.    I  want  to  depend  on  you,  Mr.  Brady." 

"  And  you  can  that,  miss,"  was  the  hearty 
answer.  "  You've  got  us  all  on  your  side  now, 
sure.  I  went  up  this  morning  to  see  the  houses. 
They  are  fine  ones,  too." 

"  And  did  you  pick  out  one  for  yourself,  Mr. 
Brady  ?     You  are  married,  I  believe  ?  " 

"  I  am  that  ;  and  I've  got  as  good  a  wife  as 
ever  the  saints  sent  to  bless  a  man.  Yes,  I 
picked  out  the  one  I  liked  best  ;  but  the 
woman'll  have  to  see  it  first,  you  know.  And 
then,  do  you  know,  I  think  I'll  buy  it.  The 
terms  are  so  easy,  and  I've  a  little  money  laid 
by,  that  I'd  like  to  use  ;  and  I'm  thinking 
Carrie'd  be  happier  in  a  home  of  our  own." 

"  Now,  that's  sensible  of  you,"  said  Salome, 


^'atamc  ^hcpavrt,  ^Uformcv.  109 

delighted  that  her  houses  were  in  such  good 
prospect  o£  pleasing.  "  If  you  do  it,  I've  no 
doubt  a  good  many  others  will.  And,  by  and 
by,  we  shall  have  quite  a  community  of  prop- 
erty owners." 

Brady  straightened  himself  up  unconsciously 
at  the  word,  touched  his  hat  and  passed  on, 
his  heart  warmed  and  gratified  by  the  kindly 
notice  ;  while  Salome  entered  the  office  in 
unusually  good  spirits. 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  she  began,  addressing  her- 
self to  Burnham,  "  that  everything  is  swinging 
round  into  the  circle  of  my  plans  far  better 
than  I  had  dared  hope.  I  expected  opposition, 
or  at  least  indifference,  on  the  part  of  the 
operatives.  On  the  contrary,  they  are  all  as 
delighted  with  the  state  of  affairs  as  I  am." 

"  Why  shouldn't  they  be  ?  "  was  Burnham's 
comment.  "  They'd  be  ungrateful  wretches 
if  they  weren't.  They've  far  more  to  gain 
than  you  have  to  lose,  remember." 

"  But  you've  been  trying  to  make  me  believe," 
pursued  Salome,  "  that  they  didn't  want  their 
condition  improved  ;  that  they  were  satisfied  to 
be  let  alone  ;  and  that  they'd  resist  every  im- 
provement I  offered." 


170  J'alamjj  ^h^pavil,  %tUvimv, 

"Wait  a  little  and  see ;"  Burnham  tried  to 
make  his  tone  impartial,  if  not  skeptical ; 
^'you've  only  begun  yet.  Don't  expect  the 
habits  o£  months  and  years,  the  loose  customs 
and  low  tastes,  are  going  to  be  overthrown  in 
a  single  night.  The  affair  of  last  night,  for 
instance,  was  doubtless  the  most  orderly  enter- 
tainment and  the  quietest  dance  they  ever  had. 
But  it  don't  follow  that  they  will  all  of  them  be 
satisfied  to  drop  entirely  the  old  order  of  low 
dances  -vhen  they  had  plenty  to  drink,  even  if 
they  didn't  have  salads  and  coffee,  or  ice-cream 
and  cake.  There's  no  telling  how  many  of 
them  Avill  be  stealing  off  to  those  places  before 
winter  is  over." 

"  Then  we  must  get  up  some  form  of 
entertainment  that  will  hold  them  to  us," 
said  Salome  firmly.  "  They  sha'n't  fall 
back,  if  anything  we  can  compass  can  save 
them." 

Villard  looked  across  his  big  ledger  at  her, 
as  if  she  had  been  an  anofel  sent  from  Heaven 
direct,  to  preach  a  higher  political  economy  to 
the  cotton  factories  of  earth.  She  caught  his 
look  and  smiled  back  at  him  ;  but  she  said  no 
more. 


^atomc  <^Ucimvrt,  lUfovmcr.  171 

She  did  not  speak  to  liiiii  until  just  as  she 
was  ready  to  go  home. 

"  How  do  you  like  your  new  quarters,  Mr. 
Villard?"  she  said,  then.  "I  hope  you  rested 
well  last  nioflit  ?  " 

Villard  remembered  his  sleepless  hours 
vaguely,  as  in  a  dream.  She  looked  so  bright 
and  untroubled  herself. 

"  You  deserted  me  after  that  first  dance. 
Did  I  dance  so  badly  that  you  feared  or  dreaded 
to  be  caught  by  me  again  ?  If  it  hadn't  been 
for  Mr.  Burnham  and  Mr.  Fales  I  should  have 
felt  quite  a  wall-flower." 

"  You  never  could  be  that.  Miss  Shepard," 
poor  Villard  managed  to  say. 

"Well,  as  soon  as  the  young  people  get  moved 
in  we  must  start  some  classes.  I  know  a  jrood 
dressmaker  whom  I  can  get,  and  Marion  will 
teach  them  some  other  things,  if  they  want  it." 

She  lingered  some  minutes,  talking  over  the 
Hall  and  her  plans,  and  left  him  with  a  con- 
fused image  of  herself  mixing  up  with  the 
figures  of  the  ledger  in  a  most  incongruous  way. 
Alas !  John  Villard  was  to  have  many  a  hard 
fight  with  himself  before  he  could  drive  away 
that  image  at  will. 


172  M^lmt  ^\it\im\f  gefovmfr. 

The  young  oi)eratives — and  all  that  dwelt 
withm  the  corjDoration  boarding-house  walls — 
began  that  very  night  to  pick  up  their  effects, 
and  make  ready  to  move  into  their  new  quarters. 
Mrs.  French  had  all  she  could  attend  to  in  prepar- 
ing for  her  large  family,  assigning  rooms,  and 
attending  to  the  thousand  details  of  opening 
the  Hall.  But  before  the  week  was  closed, 
every  old  boarding-house  was  closed  and  the 
new  home  full. 

Marion  Shaw  found  her  time  altosrether 
occupied.  Her  work  was  to  lie  directly  among 
the  girls,  as  Villard's  influence  was  to  save  the 
boys  and  young  men.  Marion  had  a  gentle 
and  pleasing  manner  that  made  friends  every- 
where she  went.  She  had  had  a  o-ood  deal  of 
experience  in  managing  boarding-school  girls, 
and  although  they  are  a  widely  different  class 
from  factory  girls,  human  nature — girl-nature, 
is  the  same  everywhere.  Before  the  week 
was  over,  Marion  had  made  friends  with  many 
of  the  girls,  and  had  already  interested  them 
in  keeping  their  rooms  tidy,  in  forming  a  girls' 
club,  which  should  embrace  all  sorts  of 
good  ends,  and  in  rousing  in  them  what  was  of 
infinite  value  in  the  work  she  had  laid  out, — a 


^lUomc  (^hrpvrt,  ^{cfovmfi',  173 

desire  to  become  as  near  like  her  and  Salome 
as  it  was  possible  for  them  to  be. 

"  We  shall  have  to  endure  the  cross  of 
having  them  cut  all  their  dresses  like  ours, 
wear  ribbons  like  ours,  do  up  their  hair  like 
ours,  and  get  up  the  most  astonishing  hats 
purporting  to  be  like  ours,"  said  she  to  Salome 
one  night ;  "  but  if  it  all  comes  of  their  want- 
ing to  be  like  us, — you  understand  me,  dear, — 
I  mean  of  their  wantinj*'  to  reach  a  hiirher 
ideal  of  course, — we  can  bear  it." 

"  We  shall  have  to,"  was  the  answer. 
"  The  truth  of  it  is,  they  will  be  trying  to  copy 
our  habits  and   manners  and   characters,  too." 

"  Then  we  shall  have  to  be  all  the  more 
careful,"  said  Marion  seriously. 

Life  to  Marion  Shaw  was  a  serious  thinp*. 
Although  she  was  but  twenty-seven  years  old, 
she  had  come  to  realize  that  life  may  not  be 
for  any  what  the  fancy  of  youth  pictures  it ; 
and  even  to  realize  that  the  highest  good 
which  life  can  hold  is  not  to  be  happy. 
Already  she  knew  that  happiness  is  but  a 
relative  term,  and  that  only  by  ceasing  to  search 
and  plan  for  it,  can  any  of  us  find  it  even  in 
small  decree. 


174  ^atomc  ^hqravrt,  ^tUvmtw 

Just  now,  she  walked  dangerously  near  to 
happiness.  On  the  opening  night,  Geoffrey 
Burnham  had  kept  closely  at  her  side  all  the 
evening,  and  after  the  affair  was  over,  he  had 
walked  home  with  her,  while  Eobert  Fales  had 
gone  ahead  with  Salome. 

At  the  door,  the  two  had  paused  a  little, 
looking  at  the  exquisite,  moonlit  October  night. 
Suddenly  the  extraordinary  interest  Burnham 
had  felt  in  this  young  woman  had  culminated. 
He  seized  both  her  hands  in  his,  and  pressed 
them  close  to  his  breast. 

"  Why  have  you  not  come  to  me  before  ?  " 
he  murmured,  passionately.  "  Why  have  you 
waited  all  these  years  ?  " 

"  I  was  waiting  for  you,"  she  answered,  with 
a  smile. 


^nXomt  ^\i(\)im\,  ^Ufovmcv.  i75 


XV. 

One  evening  in  January,  Salome  and  Marion 
went  over  early  to  Newbern  Shepard  Hall. 
Marion's  duties  called  her  there  every  evening, 
and  she  was  seldom  unaccompanied  by  her 
friend. 

The  success  of  Salome's  schemes  for  the  in- 
terest of  the  working-girls  seemed  already 
assured.  Although  the  Hall  had  been  open 
but  little  more  than  two  months,  classes  in 
dressmaking  and  millinery  and  in  domestic 
science  were  already  established,  and  were  well 
attended.  Some  girls  there  were,  it  is  true, 
who  felt  that,  after  working  all  day,  they  were 
entitled  to  an  idle  evening,  or  to  the  right  of 
amusing  themselves  after  their  own  fashion. 
But  plenty  of  young  women  had  been  found 
to  open  the  classes,  and  the  number  was  steadily 
increasing.       No    strong   measures    had   been 


176  ^alomc  ^hcpavrt,  ^Ufovmcv. 

taken  to  induce  these  girls  to  join.  Marion 
had  talked  with  some  of  them  individually,  at 
first,  and  found  a  few  who,  half  skeptically, 
had  consented  to  try  the  dressmaking  class,  as 
an  experiment.  Then  the  announcement  was 
made  that  a  class  would  be  opened  on  a  cer- 
tain night,  and  twenty-six  girls  were  present. 
Instruction  in  sewing,  cutting  and  fitting  was 
given  free  to  any  woman  connected  with  the 
Shawsheen  Mills.  As  the  girls  had  been  pay- 
ing exorbitant  prices  for  having  cheap  material 
poorly  made  up,  and  as  Salome  had  provided 
instructors  from  the  best  dressmaking  estab- 
lishment Shepardtown  afforded,  the  girls  were 
not  slow  to  see  the  benefit  that  would  come  to 
them. 

The  young  wives  of  operatives,  too,  women 
with  houses  and  children  to  care  for,  then 
began  to  avail  themselves  of  the  privileges 
which  the  class  afforded.  So  that,  on  this  Jan- 
uary evening,  there  were  over  a  hundred  and 
fifty  women  in  the  classes,  and  another  room 
had  been  opened  to  them  on  the  ground 
floor. 

It  was  the  same  with  other  classes.  At  first, 
the  young  women   had    joined  with  the  older 


Salome  ^hcpavd,  ^{cfovmcr.  177 

ones    in    "  pooh-poohing "    the    cooking   and 

housekeeping     lectures    and    demonstrations. 

The  idea  that  they  and  their  mothers  did  not 

know  how  to  cook,  and  that  Salome,  who  knew 

absolutely  nothing  of  such  matters,  essayed  to 

teach  them,  was  a  most  distasteful  one.     But 

when  they  found  that  a  celebrated  teacher  was 

to  come  out  twice  a  week  from  Boston,  and  ffive 

demonstrations  in  the  model  class-rooms  below, 

and   that  a   o^raduate  of  the   Boston  Cookino- 

School  had  been   engaged  to  take  charge  of 

the    lessons  every    evening,   they,   the    young 

married  women  from  the  cottages,  especially, 

dropped  in  from  curiosity  ;  and  although  they 

had  come  to  scoff,  they  remained  to  cook.     In 

short,  they  had  become  deeply  interested  in  the 

new  ways  of  housekeeping,  and  were  surprised 

and  delighted  to  find   a  way  of  making  their 

few  dollars  go  farther  and  procure  a  better  and 

more    healthful    living.     Consequently,    these 

classes,    too,    were   full,    although    the    older 

matrons  did  not  yet  give  up  their  prejudices. 

Among  the  girls  who  had  not  yet  joined  the 

classes,  there   were  many  who   sat  quietly  in 

their  own  rooms  or  in  the  laro-e  readina--rooms, 

and  enjoyed  the  current  magazines  and  papers, 

12 


178  Salome  <#1tf}nn'tl,  ^Ufomcr. 

or  gossiped  quietly  and  harmlessly  about  the 
fashions  and  each  other — not  altogether  unlike 
women  of  higher  pretensions.  It  was  astonish- 
ing, even  to  Salome,  who  had,  from  the  first, 
believed  in  her  girls,  how  few  of  them  went 
out  on  the  streets  at  night. 

"  It  is  not  astonishing  to  me,"  said  Marion, 
that  January  evening,  in  reply  to  a  remark  from 
her  friend  to  this  effect.  "  The  girls  are  tired 
at  night  and  are  only  too  glad  to  have  a  pleasant, 
light  and  steam-heated  place  to  stay  in.  Their 
rooms  at  the  old  boarding-houses  were  cold,  bar- 
ren and  dismal.  In  winter  weather  they  could 
not  sit  in  them,  and  the  so-called  parlor  was  not 
much  better.  When  I  was  at  Mme.  Blanc's 
one  of  her  servant  girls  went  wrong.  I  shall 
never  forget  something  she  said.  When  Mad- 
ame heard  of  it,  she  sent  for  the  girl  and  asked 
her,  bitterly,  what  had  made  her  bring  such  a 
scandalous  thing  upon  a  select  house  like  hers. 
I  was  in  her  room  at  the  time.  The  poor  girl 
looked  up  at  Mme.  Blanc  and  said,  ^  0,  ma'am, 
you're  awful  particular  about  where  your  young 
ladies  spend  their  evenings, — girls  that  you're 
paid  for  looking  after.  But  us  servant  girls — 
how  did  you  look  after  us  ?     You  didn't  allow 


^nlomt  ^\\t\rm\r  '^.efonncx'.  179 

us  a  light  in  our  own  rooms,  or  to  speak  above 
a  whisper  in  the  kitchen,  or  seem  to  think  we  was 
human  beings  at  alL  What  else  could  we  do, 
but  go  out  on  the  street  when  we  wanted  a  bit 
of  freedom  ?  And  once,  on  the  street,  ma'am, 
girls  like  us  ain't  never  safe.  If  you'd  looked 
out  for  me,  ma'am,  and  treated  me  as  well  as 
you  treat  your  own  dog  or  cat,  it  would  never 
have  happened.'  Poor  Madame  Avas  overcome 
entirely,  and  the  girl  left  her  white  Avith  rage. 
But  she  looked  after  her  servants  more  closely 
afterward,  and  kept  them  in  at  night  in  warm 
rooms.  I  don't  believe  our  girls  Avant  to  do 
Avrong, — especially  if  Ave  make  it  comfortable 
for  them  to  do  right." 

On  the  young  men's  side,  things  had  gone 
equally  Avell.  There  Avas  a  class  of  them  who, 
like  their  fathers  before  them,  Avere  sturdy, 
honest  and  faithful.  It  Avas  a  small  class,  but 
upon  these  John  Villard  depended  to  counter- 
act the  influence  of  the  lower  foreiofu  element 
that  had  crept  in  ;  and  to  the  pride  of  these 
he  appealed,  both  directly  and  indirectly,  in 
his  efforts  to  establish  a  better  social  atmosphere 
among  the  operatives. 

With  a  few  of  these  to  bejiin  Avitli,  he  had 


180  ^nlomt  ^\x(\rm\,  ^tfoKwsx, 

opened  an  evening  school  on  the  other  wing  of 
the  Hall ;  and,  as  in  the  case  of  the  women's 
classes,  it  had  increased  in  numbers  and  interest 
from  the  start.  The  overseers,  almost  to  a 
man,  gladly  availed  themselves  of  its  opportu- 
nities for  the  education  that  the  true  American 
always  feels  the  need  for ;  and  they,  with  the 
better  class  of  men  from  the  looms  and  mules, 
set  the  example  for  others  to  follow. 

No  better  man  for  the  work  could  have  been 
chosen  than  John  Villard.  He  had  come  up 
under  much  the  same  conditions  that  governed 
them.  He  had  begun  on  the  lowest  round, 
and  worked  up  to  the  position  he  now  occupied, 
by  hard  work  and  the  closest  application  to 
business.  This  fact,  together  with  his  attitude 
toward  them  during  the  ^rike,  had  made  him 
a  favorite  with  nearly  every  man  on  the  works. 
They  felt  that  they  could  place  the  utmost 
confidence  in  Villard ;  and  in  the  Shawsheen 
Mills,  as  everywhere,  a  rugged  sincerity  and 
honesty  of  purpose  carried  a  weight  that  even 
the  most  unstable  felt. 

The  lecture-hall  was  usually  packed  at  the 
weekly  entertainment  which  Salome  provided, 
and  a  new  feeling  of  content  and  self-respect 


^alomc  <^hri)avd,  ^{cformcv.  181 

had  begun  to  permeate  the  mills.  Make  a 
man  who  has  been  looked  upon  as  a  mere 
machine  feel  that  he  is  estimated  at  something 
near  the  worth  which  every  human  being  feels 
in  his  heart  that  he  is  entitled  to,  and  you  have 
done  much  to  raise  him  to  a  higher  social 
standard.  For  the  first  time  since  old  Newbern 
Shepard's  day,  the  mill-liands  began  to  feel 
a  just  pride  in  being  individual  American 
citizens.  Unconsciously,  both  men  and  Avomen 
were  setting:  their  faces  toward  the  hig^her 
standards  which  Villard  by  his  life,  and 
Salome  by  her  newly  awakened  energy,  had 
set  for  them. 

At  the  mills,  affairs  were  on  a  most  flourish- 
ino'  basis.  The  Shawsheen  brand  of  cloth  was 
too  well  known  to  allow  of  a  few  months  shut- 
down of  the  mills  making  any  difference  in  the 
law  of  demand.  Orders  had  increased,  even 
while  the  mills  were  closed,  and  they  had  been 
worked  to  their  utmost  capacity  ever  since  they 
had  opened.  Never  had  the  Shawsheen  Mills 
been  more  prosperous  than  at  the  beginning  of 
January,  or  their  future  looked  brighter. 

When  Villard  had  opened  his  evening  school 
he  invited  Burnham  to   co-operate  with  him  ; 


182  ^i\\o\m  ^^hfpavtli,  '^vdovrntv, 

but  tlie  latter  had  put  him  off  without  a 
definite  reply,  and  not  until  the  afternoon  of 
the  day  referred  to  in  the  beginning  of  this 
chapter  had  Villard  asked  him  whether  or  not 
he  might  count  on  his  assistance.  Burnham 
occasionally  looked  in  at  the  Hall  of  an  even- 
ing, but  Villard  had  begun  to  suspect  that  this 
was  principally  for  the  purpose  of  seeing 
Marion  Shaw. 

"  Well,  to  tell  the  truth,"  Burnham  finally 
admitted,  "  I've  no  taste  for  this  sort  of  thing. 
Oh,  yes;  it's  a  good  scheme,  and  seems  to  be 
working  first-rate  ;  but  I'm  not  the  right  fellow 
for  the  place.  I  don't  like  philanthropic  work, 
never  did,  never  shall.  I  work  hard  enough 
during  the  day.  I  need  rest  and  freedom  at 
night." 

Villard  smiled. 

"  And  I  suppose  I  don't  do  anything  day- 
times and  need  this  sort  of  thing  as  recreation 
and  intellectual  stimulus?"  His  tone  was 
sarcastic,  for  he  had  little  patience  with  selfish- 
ness in  any  form. 

"No,  not  that,"  said  Burnham.  "You 
work  hard  enough — too  hard,  in  fact.  But  all 
this   is  more  in   your  line.     You're  like  Miss 


^alomc  ^Ucpanl,  |{cfovmcr.  183 

Shepard ;  you're  both  of  you  happier  working 
yourselves  to  death  for  others.  Now,  I'm  not 
built  on  that  plan.  I've  no  faculty  for  teach- 
ing, and  I'm  sure  that  my  well-meant  efforts  to 
meet  the  men  half-way  are  looked  upon  by 
them  as  condescension  on  my  part." 

He  waited  an  instant  for  Villard  to  speak, 
but  no  answer  came. 

"  I  can't  help  it.  I  wasn't  born  to  the  manor, 
so  to  speak.  I  didn't  come  up  from  the  ranks, 
as  you  know.  I  suppose  they'd  believe  in  me 
more,  if  I  had.  But  you  know  that  my 
father  put  me  under  Mr.  Greenough  to  learn 
the  business,  only  after  I  had  graduated  from 
college  and  fooled  away  a  year  in  Europe.  I 
sometimes  doubt  if  I'm  not  out  of  place  in  this 
mill  as  it  is  run  nowadays." 

"  Oh,  no,  not  that,"  put  in  Villard  hastily. 
"  You're  too  good  a  business  man.  We  couldn't 
spare  you." 

"  I  can  see  how  it's  all  coming  out,"  Burn- 
ham  continued,  as  if  he  had  not  heard  Villard. 
"  You  two "  (ViUard's  heart  jumped  at  the 
words)  "  will  go  on  and  make  a  model  in- 
stitution of  the  Shawsheen  Mills.  I  should 
doubt  if  you  made  a  profitable  one,  only  that  I 


184  ^^Umt  ^\\t\m\%  ^Icfovmcr, 

know  you've  got  a  mighty  good  business  head 
on  your  shoulders  ;  and,  I  say,  the  way  Miss 
Shepard  is  developing  is  a  caution  to  us  men. 
I'd  no  idea  she'd  take  such  a  practical  turn,  or 
learn  the  details  so  readily.  Oh,  I  can  see  where 
it's  s-oing:  to  end.  She'll  be  the  reco™zed  head 
and  you'll  be  her  first  assistant.  As  for  me,  I 
sha'n't  be  in  it.     I  shall  have  resigned." 

"  Jeff  !  "  It  was  only  occasionally  that  these 
two  caUed  each  other  by  their  boyhood  names. 

"  Yes,  I  don't  think  I  should  care  to  have  it 
known  that  I  worked  under  a  woman,  much 
as  I  admire  and  respect  Miss  Shepard.  There' d 
be  no  other  way,  unless  I  married  her  !  " 

Villard  turned  pale  with  sudden,  inward  rage, 
but  he  said  nothing. 

"  Don't  think  I'd  have  much  chance  there, 
though,"  Burnham  went  on  lightly.  "  You're 
more  her  style.  And  you're  both  so  much 
wrapped  up  in  good  works  that  you've  no  time 
for  faith  in  each  other,  beyond  what  you  waste 
in  philanthropic  effort.  Miss  Shepard  don't 
seem  to  be  the  marrying  kind.  I  don't  believe 
she  ever  thinks  of  a  man  unless  he  has  the 
merit  of  being  an  operative  in  the  mills." 

"  And  since  you're  bent  on  discussing  matri- 


J^atonw  ^'hfpavil,  ^»cformcr.  185 

monial  matters,"  observed  Villard,  with  sarcasm, 
"  how  about  Miss  Shaw  ?  And  when  are  the 
weddinof-cards  to  be  issued  ?  " 

Burnham  shook  the  ashes  from  his  cijrar  and 
looked  at  his  watch  critically. 

"  Marion  Shaw  is  a  fine  girl,"  he  said.  "  She's 
the  right  kind  of  woman  to  tie  to ;  but  " — and 
Burnham  took  up  his  hat  to  go  out — "  I'm  not 
the  marrying  kind  either." 

So  Villard  had  come  to  understand  that  he 
must  take  care  of  his  eveninof  school  as  best 
he  could  alone. 

Robert  Fales  had  settled  in  Sliepardtown. 
There  were  to  be  more  cottasfes  built  in  the 
spring,  and  to  him  Salome  had  alone  confided  her 
plan  of  erecting  a  new  church  which  should  be 
named  for  her  grandfather.  When  the  evening 
school  began  to  grow,  he  went  to  Villard  and 
offered  his  services  as  assistant,  and  had  proved 
a  most  valuable  one. 

This  evening  Salome  looked  in  upon  them, 
and  asked  Villard  if  he  could  give  her  a  few 
moments  after  the  class. 

"  I  shall  be  very  glad,"  he  replied.  "  I  have 
been  working  up  the  idea  you  spoke  about  the 
other  day,  and  Avanted  to  talk  with  you  about  it." 


186  Mom  ^Itfpa^t,  lUfavmcv. 

"  The  pi'ofit-sliaring  scheme  ?  "  asked  Salome. 
"  That's  just  what  I  wanted  to  speak  of.  It 
seems  to  me  we  ought,  now,  at  the  beginning  of 
the  year,  to  get  it  into  manageable  shape,  and 
tell  the  men,  so  that  they  may  know  what  to 
expect.  I  will  be  in  the  reception-room  when 
your  class  is  through." 

Much  as  Villard  was  interested  in  his  work 
the  remainino'  hour  dra<>-p;ed  a  little.  The 
prospect  of  a  quiet  tete-a-tete  with  Salome,  even 
on  so  unromantic  a  subject  as  profit-sharing, 
was  too  alluring. 

But,  at  last,  he  found  himself  face  to  face 
with  her,  and  for  a  few  moments  forgot  all  else 
in  the  pleasure  of  listening  to  her  voice  and 
watching  the  curve  of  her  chin  and  mobile  lips, 
as  she  talked  of  immaterial  things. 

"  And  now,  what  kind  of  a  plan  have  you 
formulated  as  to  the  profit-sharing?"  she 
asked,  after  a  little. 

"  Profits — oh,  yes,"  said  Villard,  suddenly 
brouofht  to  himself.  "  I  have  examined  all 
the  accounts  of  such  experiments  in  foreign 
countries,  and  tried  to  remember  the  differing 
conditions  and  better  wages  here.  I  have 
prepared  a  rough  draft  of  a  circular  which  I 


^atomr  <f Ucpavrt,  ^Vcfovmcr.  187 

thought  perhaps  you  might  like   to  send  out 
among  the  hands.     Do  you  want  to  see  it  ?  " 

"  Of  course,"   was  the    answer. 

"  I  don't  pretend  it  is  complete,  you  know," 
he  Avent  on,  drawing  a  folded  paper  from  his 
inner  pocket.  "  It  is  only  an  abstract,  but — 
here  it  is." 

"  Read  it  to  me,  please,"  said  Salome. 

He  would  rather  have  had  her  read  it,  Avhile 
he  Avatched  her  face ;  but  he  compKed. 

"For  some  time  past,"  the  circular  read, 
"  the  subject  of  co-operation  in  some  form  has 
been  considered  by  the  Shawsheen  Mills. 
Believing  that  capital  and  labor  are  inter- 
dependent and  their  interests  identical,  it  has 
been  decided  to  adopt  some  plan  by  which  the 
laborer  may  obtain  a  share  of  the  product  in 
proportion  to  the  profits  of  the  scheme,  at  the 
same  time  guaranteeing  his  wages  against  the 
time  of  loss. 

"  It  is  now  proposed,  therefore,  to  divide  a 
sum  among  the  ShaAvsheen  employes,  each  year 
in  which  there  are  surplus  profits,  over  and 
above  wages  earned. 

"  Understand,  that  before  anything  can  be 
set  apart  for  this  purpose,  wages  must  be  paid, 


188  <^alamc  ^hfpmut,  l^ffomcr, 

interest  must  be  paid,  and  a  fair  profit  on 
cajDital  must  be  j)aid.  In  addition  to  this,  an 
additional  amount  must  be  set  aside  to  make 
good  the  wear  and  tear  of  buildings  and  ma- 
chinery, and  to  strengthen  reserve  funds  against 
a  time  of  depression. 

"  Ordinarily,  the  sum  above  all  these  amounts 
must  be  small,  and  must  differ,  of  course,  with 
the  fluctuations  of  the  market,  the  depression  of 
trade,  and  the  wear  of  machinery  from  year  to 
year.  It  will  be  readily  seen,  also,  that  the 
sum  to  be  divided  will  be  enlarged  by  extra 
care  and  attention  on  the  part  of  employes. 
Every  weaver  who  makes  a  mis-pick,  every 
burler  who  slights  her  work,  every  spinner  who 
makes  a  needless  knot ;  in  short,  every  person 
who  makes  an  unnecessary  waste  of  any  kind, 
makes  the  amount  to  be  divided  smaller,  by 
making  a  loss  to  the  concern ;  and,  on  the 
other  hand,  if  every  person  in  the  mill  attends 
to  the  little  savings,  the  wool-washers  saving 
every  scrap  of  wool,  the  spinners  making  less 
waste,  the  weavers  weaving  up  the  whole 
bobbin,  and  so  on  through  all  the  branches,  a 
great  saving  can  be  made  which  will  effectually 
increase  the  sum  to  be  divided ;  and  it  will  be 


J^alomf  ^hcpavd,  ^Icfovmcr.  189 

for  the  direct  interest  o£  every  employe  to 
exercise  such  increased  care  and  diligence. 

"  The  mode  of  distributing  this  bonus  will  be 
by  making  a  dividend  of  so  much  per  cent,  upon 
the  wages  earned  by  each  person.  If,  after  all 
contingencies  are  provided  for,  there  is  not 
enough  left  to  make  a  dividend  of  one  per 
cent.,  no  dividend  will  be  made  for  that  year. 
In  case  of  a  dividend  it  will  be  paid  on  and 
after  the  first  day  of  May  in  each  year  to  all 
employes  who  have  been  in  employ  at  the 
Shawsheen  Mills  for  at  least  seven  months 
during  the  year,  and  shall  not  have  been 
discharged  for  drunken  or  disorderly  conduct. 
The  amount  of  wages  earned  during  the  year 
preceding  the  first  of  April  shall  be  the 
amount  upon  which  the  bonus  for  each  in- 
dividual shall  be  computed. 

"  The  profit  for  the  present  year,  if  there  be 
a  dividend,  will  be  paid  on  or  after  the  first 
day  of  May.  Let  every  person  connected  with 
the  mills  work  so  faithfully,  making  every 
effort  toward  a  wise  economy,  that  the  first 
dividend  shall  be  an  encourao-ino-  one." 

John  Villard  stopped  reading  the  circular 
and  looked  across  at  Salome.     She  was  regard- 


190  ^n\om  ^]\t\rm\,  ^^cfovmcv. 

iiig  him  with  a  fixed  look  of  admiration  and 
reverence,  such  as  a  good  woman  feels  for  but 
one  man  in  a  lifetime.  For  an  instant  his 
pulses  leaped  ;  but  he  was  too  modest  a  man  to 
believe  in  his  own  o^ood  fortune. 

"Well,  what  do  you  think  of  it?"  he 
asked. 

His  words  brought  her  to  herself.  Her 
expression  faded  to  one  of  mere  brightness, 
and  became  less  frankly  honest. 

"  I  think  it  capital,"  she  said.  "  I  do  not  see 
how  it  can  be  improved.  Will  you  let  me  take 
it  home  and  consider  it?" 

"  Of  course,"  he  assented.  "  You  know  I 
do  not  pretend  it  is  perfect.  But  it  seems  to 
me  we  risk  nothing  in  trying  it." 

Salome  rose  to  go  and  reached  out  her  hand 
for  the  manuscript.  Some  pieces  had  fallen 
on  the  table  and  in  gathering  them  up,  their 
hands  brushed  against  each  other. 

An  electric  thrill  shot  throuo-h  the  frame  of 

o 

each.  Salome  stood,  blushing  and  sweet, 
suddenly  conscious  that  a  crucial  moment  in 
her  life  had  come.  Had  Villard  but  spoken, 
had  ho  but  clasped  the  hand  that  still  remained 
near  his ! 


<f alome  ^flicpavd,  l^cfovmcr.  191 

But,  ever  depreciating  himself  and  knowing 
absolutely  nothing-  of  the  heart  of  woman,  he 
turned  abrui:)tly  away,  bringing'  Salome  back 
to  herself  with  a  hasty  "  good-evenhig."  And 
then  he  strode  away  to  the  outer  air,  asking 
himself,  savagely,  why  he  was  so  weak  and 
boyish  because  a  pretty  woman  happened  to 
touch  his  hand. 


192  ^al0m«  <^U«|)M(l,  3^toxmsx. 


XVI. 

All  through  the  winter  months,  Geoffrey 
Burnham  and  Marion  Shaw  were  constantly 
meetins:.  As  Burnham  had  intimated  to  Vil- 
lard,  he  had  taken  only  a  superficial  interest 
in  the  philanthropic  or  ethical  side  of  mill- 
economy.  But  he  was  often  at  the  Hall  of  an 
evening  ;  and  upon  pleasant  nights,  when  the 
ladies  walked  over  from  the  Shepard  mansion, 
he  accompanied  them  home  after  the  evening's 
engagement.  If  it  were  early,  as  on  ordinary 
occasions,  he  went  in  and  sat  chatting  with 
them  for  an  hour  or  two.  Mrs.  Soule  always 
welcomed  him,  and  although  she  never  went  to 
the  Hall,  she  found  ample  opportunities  of 
telling  him  how  many  lonely  hours  it  caused 
her. 

"  I  often  wish  Salome  cared  half  as  much," 
she  used  plaintively  to  say  on  these  occasions, 
"for  a  living  aunt  as  for  a  dead  grandfather." 


^iU0mc  ^Ucpuvtt,  l^fovmcr.  193 

Often,  Biirnham  sang  to  Salome's  accom- 
paniment, his  rich  tenor  voice  lending  pathos, 
and  his  ardent  glances  a  meaning,  for  Marion 
in  the  love-songs  he  sang  so  well.  The  latter 
sat  silent  at  such  times,  a  quiet  content  wrap- 
ping her  round,  forgetting  the  past,  ignoring 
the  future. 

"  A  blind  man's  paradise,"  she  told  herself  it 
was,  as  the  Aveeks  rolled  by,  and  the  glamour 
of  a  scarcely  hinted  but  very  evident  passion 
waited  in  vain  for  more  than  the  vaguest  ex- 
pression. 

Sometimes  the  two  were  left  alone  for  a 
while,  when  the  conversation  took  a  fitful  tone, 
as  if  uncertain  whether  to  be  light  and  frivo- 
lous, or  tender  and  deep.  Several  times  Burn- 
ham  had  seized  Marion's  unresisting  hand  and 
kissed  it  passionately  ;  and,  finally,  one  even- 
ing when  they  were  alone,  he  had  put  his  arm 
about  her  waist  and  drawn  her  close  to  him. 

"  Why  have  we  not  had  each  other  all  these 
years  ?  "  he  asked,  looking  into  her  sweet,  con- 
fused eyes.  "  What  cruel  fate  has  kept  you 
from  me  ?  " 

"  It  does  not  matter,  does  it,  so  long  as  we 

have  each  other  now  ?  "  Marion  had  asked  in 

13 


194  Salome  ^'hciJanT,  ^xtUxmtu 

reply.  And  then  he  had  bent  and  kissed  the 
pure  white  brow  and  the  clustering  rings  of 
hair. 

After  this,  every  night,  Marion,  kneeling  by 
her  bedside  alone,  thanked  God  for  the  love 
that  had  come  to  brighten  her  bereaved  life. 

And  Burnham?  Did  he  realize  what  he 
might  be  doing  when  he  won  this  true  and 
loyal  woman's  heart  ?  At  first,  he,  too,  was 
happy  in  the  present.  The  past  held  nothing 
which  he  was  proud  to  remember ;  and  into  the 
future  he  stubbornly  refused  to  look.  He  had, 
for  years, — "  since  his  days  of  adolescence," 
he  told  himself, — had  no  interest  in  women, 
although  he  knew  that,  in  a  place  like  Shepard- 
town,  he  was  the  object  of  several  fond  mam- 
mas' machinations,  and  the  admiration  of  most 
of  the  village  girls.  He  had  never  met 
Marion's  counterpart.  She  interested  and  fas- 
cinated him.  Simple  and  childish  in  many 
ways,  she  was  grave  and  dignified  in  others. 
Her  life,  he  could  see,  would  be  spent  for 
others.  She  was  one  of  those  women  who  are 
a  constant  sacrifice  to  the  world  around  them  ; 
who  give  openly  and  always  of  their  best,  ask- 
ing and  expecting  little  in  return.     In  short — 


<f  atomc  ^hcpnvrt,  |Ufovmcr.  105 

Biirnham  knew  it  as  Avell  as  any  one  could — 
she  was  a  woman  whose  life  and  love  and 
utmost  service  would  be  absorbed  by  a  selfish 
man,  only  to  be  as  unappreciated  as  they  were 
undeserved  on  his  part.  And  yet,  ever  since 
their  first  meeting,  months  before,  there  had 
been  that  subtle  consciousness  of  each  other 
drawinii*  them  on,  that  wave  of  feeliuir  on 
meeting,  that  positive  yearning  when  they  were 
separated. 

After  Villard's  pointed  questioning-  regard- 
ing Marion,  Burnham  began  to  question  him- 
self seriously.  At  first,  when  thoughts  of  the 
future  had  intruded  into  his  calm  moments,  he 
thought  of  her  as  his  wife  ;  of  himself  as  settled 
down  in  a  house  of  his  own  ;  he  even  expected 
to  be  happy.  But  he  did  not  put  his  thoughts 
into  words.  When  he  was  with  Marion,  he 
avoided — not  so  much  from  intention  perhaps 
as  from  a  reluctance  to  break  the  spell  of  ro- 
mance which  hung  over  them — any  mention 
of  different  relations  in  the  future. 

It  was  April  before  he  brought  himself  to 
face  about  and  look  at  the  subject,  calmly  and 
seriously.  Just  where  was  he  drifting  with 
Marion  ? 


196  Salome  ^^Hepanl,  ^ef0vnw»:. 

One  day  lie  allowed  himself  to  let  fall  some 
remark  about  her  to  Villard, — not  in  any  way 
implying  their  peculiar  relations,  but  yet  speak- 
ing of  her  in  such  a  way  that  Villard  drew  him- 
self up  to  his  straightest,  and  looked  him  in  the 
the  eye  a  full  moment.  Not  a  word  was  said, 
but  at  that  instant,  Burnham  felt  the  disagree- 
able consciousness  of  being  a  scoundrel. 

He  went  home  that  evening  and  tried  to  read. 
Then  he  tried  to  smoke.  Then  he  thought  of 
going  over  to  the  Shepard  mansion.  He  finally 
decided  on  sitting  down  and  squarely  meeting 
an  issue  that  should  have  been  faced  six  months 
before. 

Geoffrey  Burnham  was  thirty-seven  years  old. 
He  had  considered  only  his  own  taste  and 
desires  ever  since  he  was  born.  When  he  was 
a  boy,  if  he  had  wanted  anything,  he  had  it. 
If  his  father  did  not  grant  his  every  wish  his 
mother  would.  And  she,  poor  woman,  had 
fostered  in  him  the  idea  that  all  his  personal, 
imperious  desires  were  meant,  always,  to  be 
immediately  granted.  The  conquering  of  Self 
had  been  no  part  of  his  early  discipline. 

His  father  died  when  he  was  in  Europe. 
When  he  came  home,  and  entered  the  mills, — an 


J^atome  ^heiwwl,  llfformcf,  107 

arrangement  the  father  effected  just  before  his 
decease, — his  pretty,  white-faced  mother  had 
come  to  Shepardtown  to  be  near  her  son.  For 
him  she  hved  and  would  die.  Yielding  weakly 
in  everything  to  him,  she  avenged  her  position 
by  setting  herself  against  all  other  women. 
Salome  had  called  upon  her,  and  had  invited 
her  to  her  house,  but  in  vain.  Mrs.  Burnham 
went  nowhere,  and  wanted  to  see  no  one.  Her 
son  was  all  in  all  to  her.  And  but  for  the 
constant  fear  that  he  would  marry  the  handsome 
Miss  Shepard,  who,  with  all  her  wealth,  she 
felt  sure,  would  crowd  her  completely  out  of 
her  son's  heart  and  home,  she  would  have  been 
a  comparatively  happy  woman.  Incredible  to 
larger-hearted  women,  as  it  seems,  there  are 
women  so  selfish  in  their  devotion  to  an  only 
son,  as  to  wreck  his  life,  so  far  as  its  being 
of  any  practical  value  to  himself  and  others  is 
concerned,  by  the  strength  of  their  own 
weak  persistence. 

Burnham  thought  of  his  mother.  He  re- 
membered the  comfortable  habits  he  had  settled 
into;  he  wondered  if  any  other  woman  would 
ever  let  him  smoke  in  the  best  room  in  the 
house,  or  submit  to  his  will  when  he  chose,  as 


198  Salome  <^Hfjjaftl,  ^efovmev. 

he  often  did  for  days  together,  to  speak  only 
in  monosyllables  in  his  own  house.  He  felt 
that,  should  he  marry,  his  habits  would  all 
have  to  be  changed ;  that  the  solitude  which 
he  prized,  when  he  felt  so  inclined,  might  be 
absolute  no  longer.  He  remembered  his 
mother's  peculiarities,  and  said  to  himself  that 
there  would  be  a  devil  of  a  row,  should  he 
undertake  to  bring  a  wife  home.  There  might 
be  constant  bickerings,  and  that  he  never 
could  abide.     No  ;  better  let  women  alone. 

Then  he  thouo^ht  of  Marion  and  sisfhed. 
Her  tender  eyes,  when  he  parted  from  her  two 
nights  before,  came  up  before  him. 

"  Hang  it,"  he  asked  himself  ;  "  just  how 
far  have  I  gone  with  her,  anyway  ?  " 

He  felt  himself  a  scoundrel  again,  to  his 
credit  be  it  written.  But  then,  there  were  the 
habits  of  a  lifetime,  and  his  mother  to  be 
remembered.  Could  he  overthrow  all  his 
established  convictions  ? 

And  yet,  just  what  miglit  Marion  be 
expecting  of  him  ?  No,  he  had  given  her  no 
definite  encouragement  in  words.  Still,  one 
never  can  tell  how  a  good,  pure  woman  is 
going  to  take  these  things. 


^ixtmm  ^\\(\)\m\,  llcfovwicv.  199 

Burnham  went  out  under  the  April  sky  and 
walked  up  and  down  the  concrete  walk  bare- 
headed, until  his  mother,  from  her  window, 
reminded  him  for  the  third  time  that  he  would 
certainly  get  cold  out  there  ;  and  shouldn't 
she  make  him  a  cup  of  hot  negus  ?  Then  he 
came  in  and  renewed  the  conflict. 

"  I've  let  the  thing  run  too  long,"  he  said 
to  himself,  as  he  gazed  into  the  open  wood-fire, 
havins:  refused  the  decoction  his  mother  had 
patiently  brought  him.  "  I'll  have  a  reckon- 
ing with  myself  to-night,  and  decide  this  thing 
once  for  all." 

Burnham  was  a  decided  man,  and,  once 
determined,  seldom  changed  his  mind.  He 
boasted,  sometimes,  of  that  quality,  forgetting 
that  it  is  only  an  ignorant  or  an  unprogressive 
soul  which  will  never  acknowledge  itself  in  the 
wrong,  or  change  its  course  from  the  one  marked 
out,  perhaps  in  obstinacy  or  error. 

Until  midnight  he  argued  with  himself, 
although,  unconsciously,  his  mind  had  been 
secretly  made  up  at  the  start.  When  the  clock 
struck  twelve  he  rose  and  got  together  his 
writing  materials. 

He  had  fully  decided  that  it  would  be  folly 


200  ^nUmt  ^hrpant,  l^cformrr. 

for  him  to  marry  Marion  Sliaw.  She  was  a 
rarely  devoted,  unselfish  woman,  and  a  most 
lovable  one ;  but  he  knew  himself,  he  said,  and 
if  she  married  him  she  would  do  so  only  to  be 
unhappy  in  the  end.  She  could  not  be  other- 
wise, living  with  him  and  his  mother. 

But  how  was  he  to  withdraw  from  the  deli- 
cate situation  in  which  he  had  foolishly  placed 
himself  ?    There  was,  he  decided,  but  one  way. 

For  a  year,  now,  Salome  Shepard  had  been 
making  a  deep  and  practical  study  of  the  mills 
and  their  operation.  She  had  proved  a  won- 
derfully a]3t  scholar,  her  womanly  intuition  often 
grasping,  in  a  few  minutes,  details  which  he 
had  been  months  in  learning.  He  doubted  if, 
should  occasion  require  it,  she  could  not  run 
the  mills  alone.  With  Villard — honest,  faith- 
ful soul  ! — to  help  her,  Burnham  felt  that  there 
was  no  longer  any  need  of  his  services  at  the 
Shawsheen  Mills.  There  was  another  super- 
intendency  in  a  mill  at  Lowell  which  stood 
open  to  him,  whenever  he  chose  to  take  it. 
There  were  some  things  about  it  that  he  would 
not  like  ;  but  he  must  not  remain  on  danger- 
ous ground.  He  took  great  credit  to  himself 
as  he  reflected  that  honor  required  him  not  to 


^atomc  ^iUcpavrt,  ^Ufovmcr.  201 

trifle  with  Marion's  feelings  another  day.  He 
virtuously  decided  to  take  himself  out  of  her 
way.  Once  gone  from  her  she  would  cease  to 
feel  his  attraction  and  forget  the  tender  scenes 
between  them.  He  would  resign  his  connec- 
tion with  the  Shawsheen  Mills. 

He  sat  down  and  Avrote  the  letter  of  resigna- 
tion. Then  he  went  to  bed  and  slept.  He, 
like  Villard,  had  kept  awake  hours  for  a 
woman.  But  he  was  not  the  man  to  conquer 
his  selfish  nature,  or  to  grow  stronger  by 
fiffhtino-  himself. 

The  next  morning  Salome  found  Villard 
alone  in  the  inner  office  of  the  mills.  A  note 
lay  on  her  desk.    It  was  Burnham's  resignation. 

She  uttered  an  exclamation  of  surprise,  and 
turned  to  Villard. 

"  Did  you  know  about  this  ?  "  she  asked, 
handino;  him  the  note. 

Villard  looked  as  astonished  as  though  a 
dynamite  bomb  had  exploded  in  the  mill-yard. 

"  Not  a  Avord,"  he  said.  "  But  stay,  he  did 
hint  at  something,  months  ago;  but  I  never 
ffave  it  a  second  thouofht.  '  Decided  that  he 
is  no    longer    needed    on    the    works,  and   an 


202  $in\mt  Mm^%  %ttama, 

ojDportiinity  having  offered  to  better  his  con- 
dition.' H'm !  Those  are  his  reasons  ? 
Strange  he  hadn't  mentioned  the  matter  to  me 
although  it  was  his  own  business." 

"  But  what  are  we  g^oingf  to  do  ?  Can't  we 
get  him  back  ?  "  asked  Salome. 

"  We  can  try,"  was  the  reply,  "  but  Burn- 
ham  is  a  pretty  determined  fellow  when  he 
fairly  makes  up  his  mind.  Shall  I  go  over 
and  see  him  ?  " 

"  If  you  please.  Tell  him  to  come  back 
with  you ;  I  want  to  persuade  him  to  stay  if  I 
can." 

Villard  Avent  over  to  Burnham's  house, 
but  he  had  already  gone  to  Lowell  to  com- 
plete arrangements  to  enter  the  new  position. 
Mrs.  Burnham  knew  nothing  of  either  this 
plan  or  her  son's  sudden  resignation.  Villard 
returned  to  Salome. 

"  What  are  we  going  to  do,"  she  asked, 
"  supposing  he  refuses  to  come  back — even  at 
an  increased  salary  ?  " 

"  Don't  you  think  you  and  I  can  run  the 
business  alone  for  a  while  ?  "  returned  Villard, 
"  at  least  until  we  can  find  a  good  man.  Good 
superintendents  don't    grow  on  every   bush." 


^ixUrn  ^Hcinu'd,  Itcfovmtr.  203 

"  Do  you  tliink  I  am  capable  of  taking  his 
place — with  your  help,  of  course  ?  "  Salome 
looked  earnestly  at  him. 

"I  think  you  are  quite  capable  of  doing 
anything  noble  and  great,"  he  answered, 
fervently. 

"  With  your  help,"  she  said,  in  a  low  tone. 
"  Of  course  I  will  do  anything,  and  shall  be 
only  too  proud,"  she  hastened  to  add,  "  if  I 
have  succeeded  in  learning  enough  of  the 
business  to  be  of  any  use." 

Villard  looked  again  at  her  averted  eyes,  and 
checked  an  impulse  to  say  something  more. 
Had  he  known  a  tenth  as  much  of  women  as 
of  cotton  factories,  his  fortune  and  happiness 
had  been  in  his  own  hands.  But  he  honestly 
thought  she  had  turned  away  her  eyes  and 
spoken  the  last  sentence  to  turn  him  away  from 
saying  more  ;  Avhile  she  was  saying  to  herself 
as  she  turned  to  her  desk  again  : 

"  Will  he  never,  never  speak  ?  It  will  come, 
some  time,  I  am  sure,  but  wdll  he  never  dare?" 


iiU4  ^Htumt  <#hfpui'il,  '^(Uvnm* 


XVII. 

BuRNHAM  returned  to  Shepardtown  only  to 
tell  liis  mother  that  he  should  q-q  to  Lowell 
immediately.  He  had  accepted  the  standing 
offer  there,  and  expected  to  begin  at  once. 

In  vain  Salome  offered  him  an  increase  of 
salary.  And  as  he  was  evidently  bent  on 
going,  she  would  not  urge  him  to  remain  in 
her  employ.  But  both  she  and  Villard  could 
assign  but  one  reason  for  his  sudden  determina- 
tion. Both  felt  sure  that  he  had  offered  him- 
self to  Marion  and  that  she  had  refused  him. 

Intimate  as  Salome  and  Marion  were,  no 
discussion  of  love-matters  ever  entered  their 
conversation.  With  each,  love  was  too  high 
and  sacred  a  thing  to  be  bruited  about,  even 
in  a  conversation  between  friends.  In  their 
younger  days,  when  Marion  had  shyly 
announced  her  engagement  to  a  young  law- 


^wUm  ^\i(\)m%  ^cfovmci*.  205 

student,  there  had  been  no  silly  or  sentmiental 
waste  of  words  between  them  on  the  subject. 
And  now,  perhaps  because  both  women  felt 
the  stirring's  of  a  deep  passion  in  their  inmost 
heart,  no  reference  to  the  subject  was  ever 
made. 

When  Salome  went  home  to  lunch,  she  told 
Marion  of  Burnham's  resignation  ;  but  beyond 
a  momentary  look  of  blank  astonishment 
Marion's  face  gave  no  sign.  And  Salome's 
feeling  for  her  friend  was  too  deep  and  too 
delicate,  to  ask  for  what  she  did  not  choose  to 
tell  voluntarily. 

Burnham  would  have  been  glad  to  leave 
town  without  risking  himself  in  Marion's 
presence  again. 

He  feared  to  trust  himself  with  her,  in  the 
presence  of  the  strange  attraction  she  had  held 
for  him.  But  common  courtesy  demanded 
that  he  should  call  at  the  Mansion  to  leave 
his  good-byes. 

Marion  heard  the  news  of  his  resignation 
with  a  stranoe  sinkincf  of  the  heart.  Some- 
thino"  told  her  that  this  was  the  end  of  her 
foolish,  happy  dream.  And  although  she 
loyally  refused   to   acknowledge   her    doubts, 


206  <^at(rm«  ^hcjmvil,  ^Affavmcv. 

the  strange  presaging  which  was  something 
more  than  presentiment  kirked  in  her  heart 
all  day,  and  kept  her  uneasy  and  restless.  She 
half  expected  Burnham  to  come  in  and  by  a 
few  words  settle  the  question  of  their  relations. 
She  even  asked  herself,  how  she  could  best 
leave  Shepardtown  if  he  insisted  upon  taking 
her  to  Lowell. 

But  he  did  not  come  until  evening.  Then 
it  happened,  as  events  will  in  this  strange 
world,  that  she  was  with  her  classes  at  the 
Hall.  Salome  was  unusually  tired  that  even- 
ing and  had  remained  quietly  at  home.  Burn- 
ham  dropped  in  about  eight  o'clock,  sat  for 
half  an  hour  with  her  and  MrSo  Soiile,  and 
then  bade  them  good-bye,  leaving  his  adieu 
for  Marion.  He  did  not  go  to  the  Hall, 
although  she  half  expected  him  all  through  the 
lonof  evenino;.  The  next  mornino^  he  took  an 
early  train  for  Lowell. 

When  Marion  came  home  she  heard  in 
amazement  that  Burnham  had  been  there  and 
gone.     Salome  gave  her  his  word  of  parting. 

"  And  was  that  all  ?  "  Marion  asked,  with 
strained  voice  and  blazing  cheeks. 

"That    was    all.     Tell    me,    dear,"    asked 


^alomc  .^hcpavd,  ^Icfovmer-  207 

Salome,  for  the  first  time,  "was  there  any 
trouble  between  you  ?  Had  you  anything  to 
do  with  his  going  ?  " 

"  No,  nothing,"  and  Marion  Avas  gone  to  her 
room. 

On  the  first  day  of  May,  the  experiment  of 
profit-sharing  was  put  into  effect  for  the  first 
time  at  the  Shawsheen  Mills.  In  spite  of  the 
strike,  and  the  enforced  idleness  of  several 
months  which  had  f olloAved,  previous  to  the  year 
just  passed,  this  had  been  a  successful  one,  and 
when  the  divisions  for  capital,  machinery  and  re- 
serve fund  had  been  set  aside,  there  still  remained 
a  surplus  which  gave  a  dividend  of  four  and 
a  half  per  cent.  In  some  cases,  this  dividend 
on  wages  made  a  very  considerable  sum,  and  in 
all  cases  the  operatives  felt  a  new  sensation  of 
direct  responsibility  and  connection  with  the 
mills.  Besides  the  addition  of  this  money  to 
their  wages,  the  feeling  of  brotherhood  and 
ownership  it  engendered  was,  Villard  declared, 
quite  Avorth  the  experiment. 

Another  circular  Avas  sent  out,  urging  the 
operatives  to  increased  care  in  saving  and 
painstaking  in  order  that  the  dividend  might 
be  larger  another  year.     And  the  good  results 


208  ^iilomc  <^hqmvrt,  |icfovmcr. 

of  the  plan  were  directly  manifest  in  the  work 
of  nearly  every  employe. 

A  little  incident  which  occurred  soon  after 
this  did  much  to  convince  the  men  of  the 
changed  relations  in  which  they  now  stood 
towards  their  employers. 

An  overseer  had  been  tyrannizing  over  the 
spinners  until  they  would  endure  it  no  longer. 
In  Mr.  Greenough's  day,  it  is  more  than  prob- 
able that  the  matter  would  have  culminated  in 
a  lock-out  or  a  strike. 

But  with  the  new  order  of  thins^s  came  a 
greater  feeling  of  confidence  in  Yillard.  Five 
of  the  spinners,  therefore,  Avith  the  consent 
of  the  others,  went  personally  to  the  superin- 
tendent. 

After  hearing  their  story,  Villard  promised 
to  settle  their  grievance,  and  quite  a  discus- 
sion of  economic  questions  concerning  Capital 
versus  Labor  followed. 

"  You  men  have  labor  to  sell,"  said  Villard, 
"  and  we  buy  it.  We  have  the  products  of 
your  labor  to  sell,  and  the  commission  mer- 
chants and  others  buy  it.  As  much  courtesy 
and  fair  dealing  should  exist  between  us,  as  I 
like  to  have  between  us  and  the  men  to  whom 


^'alomc  ^hqjavd,  ^Ufovmcv.  209 

we  sell.  We  would  not  take  insolence  from  a 
broker's  clerk ;  you  need  not  put  up  with  the 
tyranny  of  an  overseer." 

These  words,  repeated  to  the  other  employes, 
were  the  most  powerful  preventive  against 
strikes  ever  tried  in  the  Shawsheen  Mills. 

As  the  summer  advanced,  other  new  cottages 
were  built  on  the  hill  to  accommodate  the 
growing  demand  from  the  operatives.  All 
those  built  the  previous  year  were  occupied, 
and  many  of  them  had  been  bought  on  the 
installment  plan.  Although  the  community 
around  the  Shawslieen  factories,  as  it  now 
existed,  had  come  suddenly  into  its  new  rela- 
tion, it  already  represented  almost  an  ideal  one. 
It  was  already  a  practical  lesson  in  social 
economics,  which  many  a  reformer  and  many  a 
capitalist  would  do  well  to  study.  To  be  a 
capitalist  even  in  a  small  way  is  to  learn  to 
respect  capital.  The  fact  that  these  men 
owned  their  small  plots  of  ground  and  their 
cottages  (even  if  they  were  mortgaged  for  the 
greater  part  of  their  value)  was  already  digni- 
fying the  laborer  by  the  tangible  proof  of  his 
own  value. 

By  this  time,  Salome   had   come    to  know 
14 


210  ^Almnt  ^U\mxA,  ^cUxnm, 

every  family  who  were  in  the  employ  of  the 
mills.  Was  there  trouble  coming  to  any 
household,  was  there  sickness,  was  there  afflic- 
tion among-  them,  they  all  turned  to  her  for 
help  and  sympathy,  encouragement  or  con- 
gratulation. The  smallest  events — the  birth 
of  a  baby,  the  progress  of  measles,  the  love 
affairs  of  the  young,  the  querulous  complaints 
of  the  old — were  all  of  interest  to  her ;  and 
they,  in  return,  appreciated  her  kindness  and 
returned  it  with  a  loyalty  of  service  that  did 
her  soul  good. 

Salome  often  declared,  laughingly,  that 
her  relations  to  them  were  truly  patriarchal. 
An  atmosphere  of  content  and  friendliness 
prevailed  where  there  had  been  jealousy  and 
bickering. 

The  popular  entertainments  were  kept  up 
durinof  the  summer.  There  were  concerts,  at 
which  local  talent  (often  some  operative  who 
possessed  the  faculty  of  singing  a  song) 
appeared.  Salome,  herself,  often  presided  at 
the  piano,  and  Marion  frequently  lent  her 
voice  ;  their  theory  being  that  young  people  who 
took  little  or  no  vacation  in  summer  needed 
some  sort  of  recreation  in  summer  as  in  winter. 


<f  atomc  <#ltci)ava,  ^>cfovmtv.  211 

Towards  the  close  of  the  summer,  as  Salome 
came  out  of  the  Ilall  one  evening,  one  of  the 
joung  men  came  up  to  her  side,  and  asked  if 
he  might  speak  to  her  alone. 

"  Certainly,"  she  said  ;  ''  Mr.  Fales,  will  you 
walk  ahead  with  Marion,  while  O'Donovan 
walks  home  with  me  ?  " 

She  remembered  the  young  fellow  perfectly. 
She  had  seen  him  first  during  the  strike,  a 
handsome  young  dare-devil  Avho  seemed,  in 
fact,  to  be  one  of  the  ringleaders  among  the 
younger  men.  When  the  mills  had  re-opened, 
she  had  taken  an  uncommon  interest  in  him. 
He  was  a  faithful  and  industrious  man,  and 
when,  after  a  few  weeks  of  sneering  at  the 
"  new-fangled  notions,"  he  had  settled  into 
harmony  with  the  strange  atmosphere,  he  had 
tried  to  improve  himself  in  many  ways.  When 
Villard  took  charge  of  the  evening  school, 
he  had  held  aloof  for  a  few  weeks,  but  at 
last  joined  one  of  Fales'  classes.  In  their 
entertainments  and  dances,  he  had  taken  lead- 
ing parts ;  and  that  day,  Villard  had  offered 
him  the  post  of  overseer  in  one  of  the  minor 
departments  at  the  mills.  It  was  quite  a  step 
up  for  the  young   man,  and  Villard  had   been 


212  ^ixXomt  ^\\c\nm\,  ^ttovwm, 

surj)rised  at  liis  hesitation  in  accepting  the 
offer. 

Salome  knew  all  this ;  and  as  she  heartily 
liked  the  fellow,  she  determined  to  influence 
him  for  his  own  interest. 

O'Donovan  was  silent  for  some  moments, 
after  they  started,  doubtless  being  unaccustomed 
to  escort  ladies  of  her  degree  in  that  friendly 
way.  But  Salome  soon  put  him  at  his  ease  by 
her  kind  and  easy  manner. 

"  And  so  you're  going  to  be  j)romoted,"  she 
said,  after  a  little.     "  I  hope  you  like  that  ?  " 

"  Miss  Shej)ard,"  he  blurted  out  in  confused 
speech,  "  that's  what  I  want  to  talk  about. 
There's  somethinof — I  mean,  I  want  to  tell — I 
ought  to  tell  you  something,  Miss  Shepard." 

"  Very  well.  It  oughtn't  to  be  very  difficult 
to  do  that,"  and  her  tone  Avas  cordial  and  en- 
couraging. 

"  I  don't  think  I  ought  to  take  the  position 
— unless  you  say  so.  But  I  expect  you'll  put 
me  in  irons,  if  I  tell  you.  Only — well,  the 
other  fellows  would  say  I  was  a  blasted  fool — 
barrin'  your  presence,  miss." 

"  Why,  John,"  exclaimed  Salome  wonder- 
ingly.     For  the  young  man   was    in  a   great 


^ixhmt  ^hcpjud,  ^{rfonufv.  213 

state    of    excitement.       "What     can     it    be? 

Surely,  you  know  you  need  not   be   afraid  of 

me  ?  " 

"  You  remember  the   night  some   one   tried 

to  blow  up  the  mill — and  Mr.  Greenough — and 

Mr.  Villard "    Salome  stood  still  and  gazed 

through  the  summer  moonlight  at  her  stranoe 

escort.     He  did  not  look  up,  but   stood   like  a 

culprit  before  her. 

"  I  don't  know  how  you   managed   to   find 

out    and    save    'em,"    he    went    on.       "Miss 

Shepard — it  was  me." 

"  You  ?  John  O'Donovan  !  "     For  an  instant 

there  was  silence. 

"  Go  on,"  she  said,  when  she  could  com- 
mand her  voice.     "  Tell  me  all." 

"  It  was  John  Ross  that  planned  it  and  put 
me  up  to  it.  When  he  died,  I  wondered  if  he 
hadn't  told  you  or  Mr.  Villard.  Ever  since 
then,   I've    been    trying    to,  but     somehow    I 

couldn't — tell  Mr.  Villard — nor  you  neither. 

It  was  John  Ross  that  planned  it.  He  called 
me  a  coward  and  a  scab — and,  finally,  well 
— you  know  I  was  a  crazy  fool  then,  with  the 
rest  of  'em.— It  ain't  no  use  talkin',  miss,  but 
we  all  discussed  and  brooded  over  thino-s  until 


214  ^'atomj  ^H^inivtl,  %tUxmtt, 

we  were  half  out  of  our  heads.  If  any  one  of 
us  had  weakened  first,  we'd  all  give  up,  and  the 
strike  would  have  bu'st ;  but — well,  'tain't  no 
use  talkin',  I  s'pose.  I've  confessed,  and  you 
can  have  me  put  in  irons,  if  you  want  to." 

"  How  did  you  come  to  want  to  tell  me,. 
John  ?  "  Salome  said  softly. 

"  Oh,  miss,  when  I  found  how  you  saved  the 
mill  that  night,  and  the  lives  of  those  two  men, 
I  went  down  on  my  knees  with  thankfulness. 
It  somehow  seemed  to  open  my  eyes  to  where 
I'd  been  standin'.  Then,  when  the  mills 
opened  and  you  took  us  back,  and  when  you 
commenced  to  take  an  interest  in  us ;  when 
you  built  that  beautiful  big  Hall,  and  all 
them  cottages  ;  and,  if  you'll  pardon  me  for 
sayin'  it,  when  you  begun  walkin'  thro'  the 
mills  yourself,  speakin'  a  pleasant  word  to  us 
all  and  smilin'  at  us   as   if  we   were  all  your 

equals,  miss — and  you  a  saint, it  was  then 

I  seemed  no  better'n  a  murderer.  And  when 
John  Ross  died,  and  the  detectives  gave  up 
lookin'  for  the  men,  it  was  bore  in  on  me  as 
how  I  ought  to  confess ;  and  to-day,  when  Mr. 
Villard  called  me  into  the  office  and  praised 
my  work,  and  said  I'd  been  faithful  and  trust- 


<^atomc  ^hcpavil,  |Ufovmcv.  215 

worthy tnistworthy,  ma'am  ! — why,  then, 

I  couldn't  stand  it  no  longer." 

The  young  man  stood  silent  in  the  moon- 
light.    Salome's  eyes  were  filled  with  tears. 

"  John,"  she  said,  "  you  are  a  noble  fellow. 
It  is  no  more  than  right  that  you  should  con- 
fess this  to  me,  but  not  all  fellows  in  your  place 
could  do  it.  You  can  because  you  have  the 
making  of  a  man  in  you." 

The  young  man  looked  up. 

"  And  what  are  you  goiu'  to  do  with  me  ?  " 
he  asked. 

"  Will  you  do  just  what  I  say  ?  "  returned 
Salome. 

"  I  will,  indeed,"  he  said. 

"  Then  I  want  you  to  go  to  Mr.  Villard  to- 
morrow morning  and  tell  him  you  accept  the 
place.  Then  do  your  best,  and  deserve  better 
things  in  future." 

"  Miss  Shepard  !  "  Young  O'Donovan  fairly 
gasped. 

"  John,"  she  went  on,  and  she  seemed  to  him 
like  the  pictures  of  saints  in  the  church,  as  she 
stood  in  her  white  gown  in  the  silvery  light, 
"  if  your  scheme  had  succeeded,  you  would  not 
only  have  destroyed  most  valuable  property  of 


216  Momt  ^\\t\)m\,  Icfom^v. 

mine  ;  you  would  have  killed  two  of  my  dear- 
est friends ;  but  you  have  turned  over  a  new 
leaf.  I  feel  sure  that  nothing  will  ever  induce 
you  to  consent  to  anything-  of  the  kind  again." 

"  Never,  so  help  me  Heaven  !  "  he  exclaimed, 
fervently. 

"  Now,  you  have  confessed  like  a  man,  I 
will  forgive  like  a  woman.  You  will  accept 
the  new  place.  You  will  go  on  studying  and 
improving  yourself,  and  some  day  I  shall  be 
proud  of  you,  and  you  will  be  proud  that  you 
once  had  the  manliness  to  come  to  me  and 
confess  a  crime.  Now,  we  will  bury  the  thing 
forever,  and  never  speak  of  it  again.  Only 
promise  me  you  will  go  to  Mr.  Villard  in  the 
morning  and  do  as  I  ask  you." 

"  I  promise,"  said  the  young  man  solemnly. 
Then  he  dropped  on  his  knees  and  seizing  her 
hand,  bent  his  head  reverently  upon  it. 

"  If  the  God  in  Heaven  above  is  like  you," 
he  said,  "  He  is  a  God  worth  serving." 

"  My  poor  forgiveness  resembles  His,  John, 
only  as  a  drop  of  rain  resembles  the  mighty 
ocean." 

They  walked  silently  home,  and  O'Donovan 
left  her  with  a  new  purpose  in  his  heart  that 


^^lamt  $\\e\mvi\,  '^tUvnitv.  217 

has  never  left  it  since.  He  is  to-day  a  thriv- 
ing Christian  gentleman.  Dare  any  one  say  it 
Avould  have  been  better  to  condemn  him  as  a 
law-breaker  ? 

"Nobody  but  a  woman,  I  suppose,  would 
have  dealt  justice  so,"  said  Salome  to  herself, 
as  she  put  out  her  light  an  hour  later,  and 
turned  to  the  window — "  nobody  but  John 
Villard." 


218  J>aIom<!  ^Iwjjat'd,  ^tUtrntx, 


xvni. 

A  YEAR  rolled  by — a  year  o£  prosperity  to 
the  Sliawslieen  Mills,  and  of  growth  and  im- 
provement in  the  condition  of  their  oj)eratives. 
John  Villard  had  been  made  first  superintend- 
ent and  a  new  man  had  taken  his  place. 
Salome  continued  to  act  as  her  own  agent  and 
had  developed  a  keen  love  and  tact  for  the 
business, — a  condition  of  affairs  which  Mrs. 
Soule  never  ceased  to  bemoan. 

The  young  people  at  the  Hall  were  more  than 
ever  the  dearest  objects  of  her  solicitude.  In 
most  cases,  their  elevation  had  been  steady  and 
substantial.  Young  men  had  become  self-re- 
specting and  carried  themselves  with  increased 
dignity.  Young  women  gradually  grew  less 
frivolous  and  more  earnest.  Thrown  together 
under  so  much  better  conditions  than  formerly, 
both  sexes  emulated  the  politeness  which  they 


^i\l0mt  ^hcpavd,  llcfovmcr.  219 

were  quick  to  notice  between  Villardand  Salome. 
They  became  more  quiet  and  decorous  ;  they 
read  a  better  class  of  books ;  they  began,  in  their 
way,  to  cultivate  higher  tastes  than  had  been 
known  in  the  old  factory  boarding-house  or 
amono-  the  tumble-down  tenement  houses.  Sev- 
eral  marriages  had  taken  place,  at  which  Salome 
had  acted  as  the  girl's  guardian,  giving  away 
the  bride.  Young  O'Donovan's  was  the  first  of 
these.  His  increased  pay  as  overseer  enabled 
him  to  marry  Kitty  Kendall,  to  whom  he  had 
long  been  devoted  ;  and  the  young  bridegroom 
was  even  happier  than  the  bride  when  Salome 
offered  to  act  in  that  capacity.  Neither  of 
them  would  have  di\red  ask  it  of  her,  but  her 
evident  willingness  to  act  on  this  occasion  en- 
couraged those  .who  came  after,  until  Salome 
said  she  felt  all  the  responsibilities  of  a  mother 
with  a  large  family  of  daughters. 

As  Villard  saw  all  this  marrying  and  giving 
in  marriage,  he  grew,  at  times,  more  restless. 
There  were  occasions  when  he  came  suddenly 
upon  Salome,  or,  perhaps  during  their  rare 
talks  together,  when  he  felt  sure  for  a  moment 
that  she  felt  for  him  more  than  a  friendly 
interest.      But,  remembering  his    comparative 


220  Mmt  <^It«pr4,  ^(ftfvttwv. 

poverty,  he  never  spoke  the  one  word  which 
would  have  broken  down  all  barriers.  And 
Salome  successfully  concealed  her  feeling  for 
him,  not  daring,  even,  to  examine  it  herself. 
So  they  had  drifted  on,  more  than  friends  and 
less  than  lovers,  through  another  year. 

There  came,  at  last,  the  first  period  of 
absence  from  each  other  since  Mr.  Greenousrh's 
death.  Daily  association,  pleasant  as  it  is,  can- 
not teach  lovers  how  much  they  love,  as  can  a 
short  separation.  ^ 

The  second  dividend  of  the  mills  had  been 
declared,  each  operative  getting  three  and  a 
half  per  cent.,  this  time,  on  their  wages.  When 
the  work  consequent  on  this  transaction  was 
closed  up,  it  was  decided  to  put  new  machinery 
in  the  lower  mills.  There  was  an  improved 
kind  in  one  of  the  Holyoke  mills,  and  it  was 
decided  that  Villard  should  go,  personally,  to 
examine  its  workings,  leaving  Salome  and  the 
second  superintendent  alone  for  a  few  days. 

Villard  had  made  his  preparations  to  start 
with  a  strange  sinking  at  the  heart.  He  was 
not  a  man  to  indulge  in  silly  presentiment,  but 
he  could  not  feel  any  enthusiasm  about  going. 
He  had    not    taken  two   days  away  from   the 


.^alamc  .^Heimvtl,  ^fformtr.  221 

mills  in  two  years,  and  was  justly  entitled  to  a 
vacation  ;  but  every  time  lie  thought  of  going 
to  Holyoke,  his  heart  sank  within  him. 

He  thought  it  was  because  he  must  leave 
Salome,  and  cliided  himself  for  his  sentimental 
fancies.  He  told  himself  to  be  a  man  ;  not  a 
silly  fool.  And,  finally,  he  refused  to  think  of 
his  premeditated  journey,  since  he  could  not  do 
so  comfortably. 

He  Avas  to  leave  ShepardtoAvn  on  a  seven- 
thirty  express,  west.  Salome  remained  at 
the  office  unusually  late  that  afternoon.  She 
made  him  go  carefully  over  her  various  duties, 
and  recount,  over  and  over  again,  everything 
necessary  for  her  to  say  or  do  while  he  was 
gone. 

The  other  superintendent  was  called  away 
early,  and  she  was  left  alone  with  Villard  in  the 
inner  office,  the  clerks  coming  in  and  out  and 
Marion  dropping  in  once  on  a  trifling  errand. 

Finally,  she  said : 

"  Well,  I  suppose  I  must  bid  you  good-bye. 
I  hope  you  won't  be  gone  long." 

She  held  out  her  hand  and  Villard  took  it. 
A  subtle  fire  shot  from  it  straight  to  Villard's 
heart.     He  looked  up.     Were  her  eyes,  so  soft 


222  Salome  <f  fe^ijard,  lUfovrnff. 

and  kind,  suffused  with  tears  ?  Was  this  the 
strong,  self-reliant  Salome  ? 

"  Miss  Shepard,  Salome,"  he  burst  out,  in- 
coherently, "  I " 

"  Come  right  in  this  way,"  said  a  hearty 
voice  at  the  other  door.  ''  Villard  will  tell  you 
what  you  want  to  know " 

"  Good-bye,"  said  Salome  again,  in  the  most 
matter-of-fact  tone,  releasing  her  hand  just  in 
time,  as  the  other  superintendent  ushered  in  a 
buyer  from  the  west.  "  Good-bye  and  good 
luck ;  "  and  turning,  she  walked  away  with 
the  nonchalant  air  which  a  woman  knows  so 
well  how  to  assume,  even  at  the  most  serious 
moment  of  her  life. 

Poor  Villard  was  both  confused  and  exalted 
by  the  sudden  dawn  of  blessedness,  which  had 
as  suddenly  faded.  He  turned  to  the  buyer 
but  was  incoherent,  and  gave  wrong  prices  on 
the  last  shipment  of  cotton,  so  that  his  cus- 
tomer felt  obliged  to  call  him  back  to  his 
senses  by  a  not  over-delicate  allusion  to  the 
parting  he  was  shrewd  enough  to  guess  he  had 
interrupted. 

Salome  went  home  in  a  strangely  depressed 
mood.     She  ate  but  little  dinner,  and  excusing 


f  iUomc  <f feqmva,  ^cfovmcv.  223 

herself  early  in  the  evening  on  the  plea  of 
unusual  weariness,  she  retired  to  her  room,  un- 
dressed and  donned  a  silken  night-wrapper, 
only  to  lie  awake  all  night,  worrying  herself 
with  fruitless  questioning.  In  the  watches  of 
the  nio-ht  and  under  cover  of  the  dark,  she 
told  herself  that  she  had  given  her  heart  un- 
sought ;  that  had  Villard  loved  her  as  she  did 
him,  nothing  could  have  kept  him  from  saying 
so ;  that  she  had  been  vain  and  conceited  in 
fancying  that,  under  his  quiet  demeanor,  he 
loved  her. 

Then  she  remembered  his  sudden,  yearning 
look  when  he  had  grasped  her  hand,  and  that, 
from  the  depths  of  his  great,  manly  heart,  he 
had  called  her  "  Salome."  And  then,  woman- 
like, she  shed  a  few  hot  tears  of  gratitude  and 
impatience. 

Marion  Shaw,  meanwhile,  had  gone  to  the 
Hall  alone  that  evening.  Her  work  among 
the  mill-girls  had  grown  dearer  to  her  heart 
with  every  month.  Most  of  the  girls  loved 
her  now,  and  looked  upon  her  as  a  comrade, 
though  walking  on  much  higher  ground 
than  they.  Many  of  them  had  secret  aspira- 
tions to  reach  the  standard   of   her  ideals,   as 


224  ^alamc  ^Itcimrd,  Ivcformicj:. 

they  dimly  conceived  it,  and  were  the  better 
for  trying. 

Marion  had  not  had  a  long  fight  with  her- 
self when  weeks  had  rolled  into  months,  and 
she  heard  no  word  from  Burnham. 

She  had  always  been  an  individual  girl — one 
who  thought  for  herself,  who  set  high  ideals 
for  herself,  who  believed  that  one  only  does 
one's  duty  by  living  at  one's  highest  and  noblest. 

When  she  was  a  mere  girl  she  had  become 
acquainted  with  a  young  college-student,  and 
their  friendship  ripened  into  love.  When  she 
became  engaged  to  Ralph  Leland,  Marion 
looked  upon  her  betrothal  as  no  less  sacred 
than  a  marriage  vow.  When,  after  a  few 
years  of  study  and  close  confinement  in  a 
theological  seminary,  Leland  had  shown 
sym23toms  of  consumption  and  been  ordered  to 
Colorado,  her  mother  was  slowly  nearing  her 
death,  with  the  same  disease.  It  had  wrung 
her  heart  with  anguish  to  decide  between  them, 
but  Leland  had  said  : 

"  Stay  with  your  mother,  Marion.  She 
cannot  live  long  and  needs  you  with  her  to  the 
end.  I  shall  live  many  years,  and,  I  feel  con- 
fident, may  yet  entirely  recover.     It  is  hard, 


^al0mc  ^hfinnd,  ^{cfovmcv.  225 

but  your  mother  cau  have  but  a  year  or  two 
at  the  most.  I  hope  to  live  for  many  years. 
And  we  coukl  neither  of  us  be  happy  if  we 
remembered  her  here,  sorrowing  and  suffering 
alone." 

And  so  Marion  had  staid  to  nurse  her  dying 
mother,  and  Ralph  Leland  had  gone  west  to 
seek  health  and  strength.  In  two  months  he 
was  seized  with  congestion  of  the  lungs  and 
died  suddenly,  away  from  all  friends  and  apart 
from  her. 

What  Marion  suffered  at  this  time,  only  a 
woman  can  understand.  What  she  endured, 
only  a  Avoman  who  has  gone  down  into  the 
blackness  of  desj^air  can  conceive.  Her 
mother  failing  gradually,  her  lover  gone,  what 
wonder  that,  for  a  time,  life  seemed  a  blank  ? 

After  the  first,  she    had    not  talked  about 

Ralph,   but   nursed   his   memory  silently,   day 

and  night.      For   eighteen   months,  she   took 

sole  care  of  her  mother,  seeing   her   slip  away 

into    the    "  great    unknown,"    inch    by    inch. 

Never   did    the    mother    realize    that    she  was 

going  to  die,  and  she  constantly  made  plans  for 

the  next  season  when  she  was  going  to  be  "  so 

much    better."      Often   Marion,   knowing  she 

15 


226  ^alomc  <f  lupavrt,  |lefovmcr. 

was  soon  to  be  motherless,  would  leave  her  low 
seat  near  her  mother,  and  stand  behind  the 
invalid's  chair  to  hide  the  tears  that  welled 
up,  even  while  she  agreed  with  the  invalid's 
plans. 

Day  by  day,  the  gnawing  agony  of  seeing 
her  mother  slowly  dying  before  her  melted 
into  and  overshadowed  the  loss  of  that  love 
which  was  to  have  shielded  and  defended  her 
till  death.  But  she  never  gave  way,  before 
mortal  eyes,  to  her  sorrow ;  and  she  never 
failed  to  minister  to  the  mother  who  so  needed 
her  care. 

By  and  by  she  was  left  alone.  Then,  for 
the  first  time,  did  the  awful  sense  of  loss  over- 
power her.  For  days  she  did  not  sleep  or 
take  any  nourishment.  Then  she  rallied  and 
girded  herself  for  the  struggle  for  existence 
which  such  women  must  make,  and  which,  in 
her  case,  had  been  eased  by  the  door  which 
Salome  had  opened  to  her. 

Through  all  her  trials  and  discouragement, 
Ealph  Leland  had  been  a  present  reality  to  her. 
Even  since  the  first  blackness  of  darkness  she 
had  believed  that  somewhere,  somehow,  she 
would  meet  him  as  of  old,  and  they  would  live 


^atomc  ^UfiJavtt,  ^cfavmcv.  227 

again  for  each  other.  Then  she  came  to 
beheve  that  he  loved  her  still,  wherever  in 
God's  or-reat  universe  he  miirht  be. 

"AVhen  he  was  in  Colorado,"  she  used  to 
say  to  herself,  "  I  never  had  a  doubt  that  he 
loved  me  still.  If  he  had  gone  to  the  farthest 
corner  of  the  earth  I  should  not  have  dreamed 
of  his  forgetting  me.  Why  should  I  now, 
when  he  has  only  gone  to  a  remoter  part  of  the 
universe  ?  " 

This  thought  was  the  one,  calm,  sustaining 
help  to  her  in  all  her  work.  And  in  this  belief 
she  was  strong  to  take  up  any  burden  which 
might  be  laid  upon  her. 

When  she  came  to  Shepardtown  and  met 
Burnham,  she  had  been  struck  by  the  subtle, 
strange  resemblance  to  Ralph  which  she  saw  in 
him.  It  was  more  than  the  mere  resemblance 
of  feature.  It  was  the  resemblance  of  expres- 
sion, of  looks,  of  the  intangible  essence  of  life. 

From  this  point  on,  so  long  as  she  came  in 
daily  contact  with  Burnham,  she  was  fascinated 
by  this  ever-recurring  resemblance ;  sometimes 
she  was  half-persuaded  that  it  was  Leland  who 
talked  or  sang  to  her,  and  she  sat  watching  him 
in  dreamy  remembrance  of  the  old  days,  before 


228  <f  alomc  ^HciJnvrt,  |icfomfv. 

her  mother  or  Ralph  had  sickened.  As  she  grew 
g-radually  to  beUeve  that  Buriiham  loved  her, 
she  thanked  Heaven  that  a  good  man's  love  was 
to  briohten  her  life  once  more.  When  the 
veil  was  rent  away,  and  she  saw  that  Burnham 
was  not  the  true,  white-souled  knight  she  had 
thought  him,  and  realized  that  he  was  not  the 
ideal  she  had  believed  and  trusted  in,  she  was 
surprised  to  find  that  she  no  longer  loved  him. 
And  then  she  thought  out  the  true  solution. 

On  the  night  of  Villard's  departure,  as  has 
been  said,  Marion  had  gone  to  the  work  she 
most  delighted  in — her  work  among  the  girls. 
There  were  classes  to  be  overlooked,  and  her 
own  special  one  in  singing  to  be  taught.  She 
was  half  through  the  musical  hour,  Avlien  she 
turned  suddenly  towards  the  door.  There 
stood  Geoffrey  Burnham. 

Afterwards  she  remembered  how  little  feel- 
ing the  sight  of  him  caused  her.  But  then  she 
said  pleasantly  : 

"  Oh,  won't  you  walk  in  and  hear  us  sing  ? 
My  girls  have  made  decided  improvement  since 
you  heard  us  last,"  and  she  went  on  com- 
posedly with  the  class. 

Burnham  looked  on  wonderingly.      As   he 


^i\\om  ^\\t\n\x%  ^ctoK\m\  229 

watched  this  self-possessed  young  woman,  his 
old  passion  flamed  up  within  him.  He  had 
never  cared  for  her  as  at  that  moment.  When 
the  class  was  over,  she  advanced  toward  him. 

"  Aren't  you  going  to  shake  hands  with  a 
fellow  ?  "  he  said,  holding  out  his  own. 

"  Certainly,"  she  said,  without  the  least  emo- 
tion. He  would  have  retained  his  hold  upon 
her  hand,  but  she  withdrew  it,  saying  : 

"  To  Avhat  accident  are  we  indebted  for  this 
unexpected  pleasure  ?  " 

"  I  came,"  he  said,  "  on  business.  I  must 
see  Villard.  But  they  tell  me  he  won't  be 
home  for  several  days.  There's  a  certain  com- 
bination of  forces  we  want  to  get  him  into,  if 
possible." 

"  You  won't,  you  know,"  laughed  Marion, 
"  unless  it's  for  the  good  of  the  working-men." 

"  Well,  it  is,"  answered  Burnham.  "  A 
society  is  being  planned  for  Lowell,  which  will 
do  for  the  operatives  there  something  lilie  that 
which  Villard  and  Salome  and  you  have  been 
doing  here.     I  said  I  would  come  down  and 

consult  with  him  to-night.     Besides,  I can't 

you  guess  any  other  reason  for  my  coming  ?  " 

"  Oh,  plenty  of  them,"  replied  Marion  indif- 


230  Mom  ^]it\ym\,  3tUmtt 

f erently.  "  I  sujDpose  you  feel  a  friendship  for 
all  who  were  once  your  peo2)le,  and  rather  want 
to  see  them  once  more." 

"  Not  that,  at  all,"  said  he  significantly, 
determined  now  that  she  should  hear  him  out. 
"  Are  you  going  home  ?  May  I  walk  down 
with  you  ?  " 

Marion  gave  her  permission  and  went  for 
her  wraps.  She  half  felt  what  was  coming, 
but  she  was  strangely  apathetic. 

When  they  were  out  under  the  stars,  the 
talk  began  in  commonplaces ;  but  Burnham 
soon  veered  it  round  where  he  chose. 

"  Why  are  you  so  cold  ?  "  he  asked,  half 
querulously. 

"  Cold  ?  "  she  repeated,  purposely  misunder- 
standing him.  "  I'm  not  cold.  This  Avrap  I 
have  on  is  warmer  than  it  looks." 

"  And  your  heart, — is  that  ?  "  retorted  he. 

Marion  did  not  answer. 

"  You  know  I  love  you.  I — know  you  once 
loved  me,"  he  Avent  on,  losing  his  head,  as  a 
consequence  of  her  indifference.  "  Perhaps 
you  resented  my  treating  you  as  I  did.  Per- 
haps I  didn't  do  right,  going  off  that  way, 
without    a    word ;   but    I    thought    it    better 


^atomc  ^hcjravrt,  ^^cfovmiC):.  231 

so.  You  see — my  motlier, — and  I, — Marion 
Shaw !  " — he  seized  her  hand,  grasping  it  in 
both  his  own — "  will  you  marry  me  ?  " 

Marion  withdrew  her  hand. 

It  was  cool,  and  she  felt  like  a  spectator  at 
stage  theatricals  which  did  not  concern  her. 

"  Marion,  you  did  love  me,  you  can't  deny 
it !  "  he  said.     "  What  is  the  trouble  ?  " 

"  I'm  sorry  you  have  brought  this  subject  up 
to-night,"  she  said,  gently.  "  It  had  much 
better  have  remained  dead  and  buried." 

"  Marion  Shaw,  you  shall  not  evade  me  so," 
retorted  Burnham,  led  on  by  her  steady  refusal 
to  respond  to  his  passion.  "  You  did  love  me 
— I  was  sure  of  it — or  else,  you  are  the  basest 
of  coquettes,  and  were  playing  with  me.  And 
now  you  are  tired  of  me  ! " 

"  As  you  were  of  me  !  "  she  blazed  out,  now 
roused  into  speech.  "  Listen,  since  you  dare 
address  me  as  you  do.  I  did  not  love  you. 
You  thouolit  I  did.  I  thouofht  I  did.  When 
you  found  it  convenient  for  some  reason,  I 
neither  know  nor  care  what,  to  leave  me  with- 
out a  word,  I  found,  for  the  first  time,  that  I 
was  only  in  love  with  being  in  love.  No, — wait 
until  I  am  through.     Ten  years  ago  I  became 


232  ^Alam  ^\it\)m\,  'gtUxmtw 

engaged  to  the  bravest  and  best  and  truest  man 
that  ever  lived."  Marion's  voice  broke,  but  she 
went  on.  "  He  died  and  I  kept  on  loving  his 
memory,  loving  him  wherever  he  might  be. 
When  I  met  you,  the  striking  resemblance  you 
bore  to  him  smote  me  like  an  electric  shock. 
You  seemed  good  and  noble  like  him,  and 
under  the  glamour  of  your  constant  presence 
and  evident  fancy  for  me,  I  allowed  myself  to 
drift  into  a  sentimental  feeling  for  you.  I  now 
see  what  that  feeling  was.  It  was  only  a  love 
of  being  in  love  ;  and  you  happened  to  be  the 
one  man  I  have  met  so  far,  and  I  hope  the 
only  one  I  shall  ever  meet,  capable  of  calling 
that  feeling  out.  You  have  compelled  me  to 
speak  plainly.  I  hojDe  you  are  satisfied.  This 
is  our  gate.  Miss  Shepard  has  retired,  but  she 
will  be  glad  to  see  you  at  the  office  in  the 
morning.  Good-night."  And  Marion  left 
him  standing  rooted  to  the  ground  where  she 
left  him. 

For  a  few  days  Burnham  felt  himself  a  badly 
used  man.  He  had  loved  and  his  love  had 
been  trampled  on,  he  said  to  himself. 

He  went  back  to  Lowell  the  next  day,  promis- 
ing to  write  Villard  ;  and  a  week  after,  when  he 


^atome  f  hqravtl,  ^cfavmfv.  233 

had  settled  down  at  home  again  with  his  dainty 
and  querulous  mother,  he  went  calmly  over  the 
ground  of  his  defeat. 

"  She  never  did  a  more  sensible  thing  in  her 
life,"  he  declared,  as  he  lighted  his  pipe,  at 
last.  "  It  would  have  been  an  awful  bore  to 
have  to  live  up  to  her  ideal." 


234  <^alom^  <^ltcpav4  |UfanMV» 


XIX. 

Three  days  passed  at  the  mills  with  no 
special  incident.  To  Salome  they  seemed  the 
dnllest  she  had  ever  known.  For  the  first  time, 
she  discovered  that  the  Shawsheen  Mills  and 
the  condition  of  its  operatives  was  not  enough 
to  satisfy  the  inmost  longings  of  her  heart,  or 
to  still  its  disquietude.  Without  the  presence 
of  John  Villard,  and  the  constant  inspiration 
of  his  presence,  life  lost  its  zest  and  sparkle. 

When  the  three  days  were  over,  Salome  went 
to  her  pillow  at  night  with  a  sense  of  relief. 
Until  now,  she  had  not  realized  what  her  ]5osi- 
tion  at  the  head  of  the  mills  misfht  mean  with- 
out  Villard.  She  saw  that  without  him  she 
could  have  done  little,  and  would  have  made 
many  mistakes — a  fact  which  it  was  good  for 

her    to    realize.     And   then  she    remembered, 

« 

with  sudden  terror,  that  he  might  leave  her  at 
any  moment,  as  Burnham  had  done. 


Salome  ^hcjnu'rt,  ^{cformcr.  235 

"  He  will  be  home  in  the  morning,"  she  said 
to  her  disquieted  heart,  "  and  I  will  offer  him 
a  share  in  the  business.  I  will  make  him  a 
partner,  and  then  I  shall  never  lose  him." 
And  even  in  the  darkness  of  night  and  the 
privacy  of  her  own  room,  she  resolutely  j)^^^ 
away  from  herself  any  other  contingency. 

The  morning  dawned  beautiful,  fresh  and 
balmy,  as  only  a  spring  morning  late  in  May 
can  dawn  in  New  England.  Salome  dressed 
herself  with  unusual  care.  A  strange,  happy 
feelino-  under-ran  all  her  thouohts.  She  would 
not  think  oi:  him  ;  she  would  not  look  forward 
to  his  coming  ;  but,  for  her,  all  the  gladness  of 
the  May  morning,  all  the  blossoming  of  sfjring 
flowers,  all  the  caroling  of  joyous  birds,  meant 
only  that  Villard  had  arrived  in  Shepardtown 
on  the  night  express,  and  that  she  would  see  him 
in  an  hour  or  two.  She  did  not  hurry  her 
preparations  for  breakfast, — this  was  such  a 
strange,  delightful  mood.  She  looked  at  her 
own  reflection  in  the  mirror,  thinking  uncon- 
sciously of  making  herself  fair  for  him.  She 
sang  snatches  of  merry  song  from  the  last 
comic  opera,  laughing  to  herself  as  she  recalled 
how  her  nurse  used  to  forbid  her  singing  before 


236  Mmt  mmm^r  %ttomtx, 

the  morning-  meal,  and  how  she  used  to  repeat, 
in  a  lugubrious  tone,  the  old  sign  : 

"  If  you  sing  before  breakfast, 
You'll  cry  before  night." 

And,  still  singing,  she  stopped  at  her  aunt's 
room,  only  to  find  that  everybody  had  gone 
downstairs  before  her. 

Mrs.  Soule  and  Marion  were  chatting  pleas- 
antly over  their  hot-house  grapes  when  she 
entered  the  breakfast-room.  The  morning- 
papers  lay  untouched  beside  Salome's  plate. 
She  took  her  place  and  leisurely  pared  an 
orange.  Afterwards  she  remembered  the  time 
she  wasted  in  cutting  the  peel  into  fantastic 
shapes. 

"  Has  nobody  looked  at  the  papers  ?  "  she 
asked,  after  a  while.  "I  declare,  how  self- 
absorbed  we  are  growing.  Who  knows  but 
the  world  has,  half  of  it,  come  to  an  end,  over 
night?" 

She  picked  up  one  of  the  papers — the  one 
which  contained  the  most  startling  head-lines, 
the  most  sickening  sensations.  Opening  it,  her 
eyes  became  riveted  to  the  front  page.  Her 
face    paled.     She    grew    whiter,    but    no    one 


^i\\mt  ^\xtm%  ^ffovmcv.  237 

noticed.  When  Marion  looked  up,  the  paper  was 
f aUing  from  Salome's  hand,  and  she  had  fallen 
back  in  her  chair— faint,  speechless  with  terror. 
With  a  cry,  Marion  sprang  to  her  side;  but 
Salome,  by  a  tremendous  effort,  recovered  her- 

'^  "Read  it,"   she  gasped,  "and  tell  me  what 

to  do." 

Marion  picked  up  the  paper,  and  read: 

HORRIBLE  ACCIDENT  ON  THE  ALBANY  ROAD. 

TmRTEEN  Killed  and  Twenty  Wounded. 

Terrible  Slaughter  due  to  Carelessness. 

PROMINENT   business  MEN    OP    BOSTON    AND  SHEPARD- 

town  among  the  Injured. 

Running  her   eye   hastily  down  the  column 
Marion  gathered  that  the  night   express  had 
been  crashed  into  by  a  heavy   freight ;  that 
both    trains  had  been  thrown   off  the    track ; 
that  many  passengers  had  been  killed,  scalded, 

mangled  or  bruised.  .   i  -n    i 

She  looked  quickly  over  the  hst  ot  killed. 
There  were  no  familiar  names  ;  but  at  the  head 
of  the  wounded  was : 


238  .    ^n\o\M  M(pml  'gtUvma. 

"  John  Villard  of  Sliepardtown.  Fatally 
injured.     Impossible  to  recover." 

She  turned  to  Salome,  who  was  already  leav- 
ing the  table. 

"  Help  me  to  get  ready,"  she  said.  "  I  must 
go  to  him  immediately."  Marion  marveled  to 
see  her  so  calm  ;  but  she  knew  only  too  well  the 
anguish  concealed  in  the  woman's  heart  below. 

"  What  is  it  ?  What  are  you  going  to  do  ? 
Why  does  not  some  one  tell  me  ?  "  asked  Mrs. 
Soule. 

"  Dear  auntie,"  and  Salome  bent  and  kissed 
the  fair,  soft  cheek,  "  there  has  been  a  ter- 
rible accident  to  the  train  that  Mr.  Villard  was 
coming  home  on.  I  am  going  to  him.  He  is 
dying."     Then  she  left  the  room. 

In  less  than  an  hour  she  was  at  the  railway 
station,  waiting  for  the  train  to  Boston.  At 
the  last  moment,  Mrs.  Soule,  having  recovered 
from  the  shock  which  the  news  had  given  her, 
had  tried  to  dissuade  her  niece  from  going. 

It  seemed  to  her  that  this  was  the  stransrest 
thing  her  unaccountable  niece  had  ever  done. 
She  really  must  remonstrate  with  her  on  the 
impropriety  of  her  conduct.  And  seeing  that 
Salome  would  not  be  restrained  from  miking 


Salome  ^Ucparrt,  ^Ufavmfv.  239 

this  erratic  trip,  she  proposed  to  go,  too,  as 
chaperon.  Only  Salome  must  wait  for  the 
noon  train,  as  she  could  not  possibly  get  ready 
for  an  earlier  one. 

"  The  noon  train  !  "  exclaimed  Salome,  l)ut- 
toning  her  gloves.  "  No,  auntie,  Mr.  Villard 
may  not  live  until  then.  I  shall  go  to  him  at 
once.  You  forget  that  I  am  no  longer  a  young 
girl.  I  am  a  business  woman,  and  my  chief 
assistant  lies  dying."  She  bent  over  and  kissed 
her  aunt,  who  was  still  remonstrating,  and  ran 
down  the  steps  to  the  waiting  carriage,  where 
Marion  had  already  taken  her  seat. 

Marion,  too,  had  offered  to  go  with  her  ;  but 
Salome  had  only  replied  : 

"  No,  dear.  If  you  will  take  my  place  here, 
that  is  all  I  ask." 

And  when  the  train  finally  drew  out  of 
Shepardtown,  and  she  had  left  her  friend  stand- 
ing on  the  platform,  she  gave  an  involuntary 
sigh.  Only  the  strong  heart,  v/liich  can  best 
bear  its  grief  alone,  will  understand  her  feeling. 

The  train  had  never  seemed  so  slow  to  her. 
Strained  and  anxious  with  that  nervous  inten- 
sity which  makes  a  woman  waste  her  strength 
in  a  half-conscious  physical  effort  to  propel,  by 


240  <faIomc  ^lifjntvrt,  ^^cfovrnfr. 

lier  own  will-power,  the  great,  unsympafclietic, 
methodical  engine,  she  sat  straight  up  in  her 
seat  with  heart  and  soul  benumbed.  Constantly 
before  her,  was  the  picture  of  John  Villard 
— mangled,  bleeding,  dying — perhaps  dead. 
Her  brain  reeled  as  she  thought  of  him  lying 
pale  and  cold  in  death. 

She  remembered  how,  only  three  days  ago, 
he  had  clasped  her  hand  and  looked  into  her 
eyes ;  how  he  had  called  her  "  Salome,"  his 
voice  deep  and  tender  with  emotion.  Dead? 
No,  it  could  not  be.  And  still  the  long,  un- 
feeling train  stopped  to  take  on  its  horde  of 
passengers,  or  to  let  off  a  working-man  or  a 
school-girl. 

The  hour's  ride  to  Boston  seemed  to  her  an 
eternity  ;  and  when,  at  last,  they  rolled  into  the 
long,  covered  shed,  Salome  was  first  to  reach 
the  steps,  and  first  to  touch  the  platform. 

Ordering  a  carriage,  she  was  soon  on  her  way 
across  the  city.  But  here  again  the  slowness 
of  her  progress  drove  her  nearly  frantic.  She 
called  to  the  driver  and  told  him  she  would 
double  his  fee  if  he  caught  the  next  train  for 
the  scene  of  the  accident.  He  did  not  know 
what  time  that  would  be,  but  he  accepted  the 


^nlamc  ^hcjntvd,  |lcfomjr.  241 

offer  and  drove  at  such  a  rate  of  speed  that  an 
agent  of  the  Humane  Society  ran  after  him  to 
catch  his  number, — and  did  not  succeed. 

When  they  reached  the  Albany  station, 
Salome  threw  him  the  smallest  bill  she  had, — 
a  two-dollar  one, — and  without  waiting  for  the 
change,  hastened  to  the  ticket-office.  It  was 
beset  with  more  than  the  usual  crowd  of  curious 
questioners  and  eager  passengers,  whose  plans 
the  accident  had  thrown  into  confusion.  It 
was  some  minutes  before  Salome  could  reach 
the  window.  She  was  about  to  turn  away  in 
despair  when  the  agent  recognized  her. 

"  Let  that  lady  pass,  there,"  he  said,  author- 
itatively; and  then  Salome  learned  that  a 
relief  train  had  been  sent  early  in  the  morning, 
that  another  would  be  starting  in  ten  minutes, 
and  that  regular  trains  would  be  run  in  the 
course  of  an  hour  or  two,  "  carrying  by,"  at 
Jones's  Crossing,  where  the  accident  had 
occurred. 

"  And  the  injured  ones,  are  they  still " 

her  voice  failed  her. 

"  They  are  still  living,"  answered  the  agent. 

"  But  some   of  them   are   so   badly  hurt  they 

must  die.     Stand  back  there,  one  minute,"  he 

16 


242  M^m  ^\it\mxi\,  ^cf^vmcv. 

said  to  the  crowd.  "  Well,  I  don't  know,  miss, 
whether  you  could  go  on  the  relief  train.  You 
might  go  out  and  ask,  though  they've  shut 
down  on  the  crowd." 

Salome  turned  away.  For  the  first  time  since 
breakfast  a  clear  thoug-ht  came  into  her  brain. 
She  went  out  to  the  traiu-ofate. 

No,  they  could  not  take  any  one.  There 
were  so  many  wanting  to  go,  and  they  only 
took  one  car.  Oh,  a  friend  of  the  injured  ? 
Well,  she  must  go  to  the  division  superin- 
tendent, or  the  general  passenger  agent.  There 
Avas  the  "  G.  P.  A."  over  there. 

Salome  walked  over  to  the  official  designated, 
— a  pleasant  gentleman  with  kind  eyes. 

"  I  am  Miss  Shepard  of  Shepardtown,"  she 
said ;  "  my  chief  superintendent  is  among  the  in- 
jured, and  is  probably  dying.  He  has  no  friends, 
and  I  must  get  to  him.     Can  you  help  me  ?  " 

The  official  took  out  a  little  book,  wrote  her 
name  on  a  blank  pass,  and  handed  it  to  her. 

"  Anything  we  can  do  for  him  or  for  you, 
Miss  Shepard,  we  shall  be  glad  to  do.  You 
needn't  hesitate  to  ask.  Your  grandfather 
was  once  kind  to  me,  when  I  was  a  poor  boy." 

The  passenger  agent  hurried  away  to  the 


M^mu  ^\it\nm\,  ^xttomtw  243 

engine,  giving  some  last  orders,   and  Salome 
did  not  have  a  chance  to  thank  him. 

"  You'll  have  to  huny,  miss,"  a  brakeman  said 
who  was  standinjr  near.     "  The  train  is  SToino-." 

A  moment  later  she  was  on  the  Avay  for 
Jones's  Crossino-. 

This  train  had  the  right  of  way  and  a  clear 
track  for  some  distance.  They  seemed  to  fly, 
as  they  sped  out  through  the  suburbs  into  the 
country  beyond. 

The  bloom  of  the  May  morning  was  still  on 
the  tender,  up-springing  grass  and  the  fresh 
foliage  of  the  trees.  Birds  sang  cheerfully  on, 
in  spite  of  the  thundering  engine  on  its  way  to 
the  scene  of  woe.  But  there  was  no  more 
beauty  in  the  world  for  Salome. 

Three  or  four  physicians  sat  in  the  corner 
of  the  one  baggage-car  which  they  all  occupied 
together,  and,  used  as  they  were  to  scenes  of 
death  and  suffering,  talked  indifferently  of 
politics  and  the  misdoings  of  Congress.  The 
brakeman  laughed  as  the  conductor  passed 
him  with  some  trivial  remark.  To  Salome  it 
seemed  that  she  alone,  of  all  the  world,  cared 
because  thirteen  persons  lay  dead  and  twenty 
more  were  fatally  injured,  a  few  miles  away. 


244  J»aIomf  ^hepavit,  '^tUvmtx, 

Afterwards,  when  she  saw  the  tenderness 
and  courageous  sympathy  of  these  people 
among  the  suffermg,  she  reversed  her  judg- 
ment. 

A  small  woman  in  black  sat  at  the  opposite 
end  of  the  car,  and  was  the  only  other  passenger. 

"  Who  is  that  ?  "  She  stopped  the  conductor 
to  ask  the  question,  at  last  drawn  out  of  her 
own  sorrow  by  the  pajthetic  attitude  of  the 
woman's  figure. 

"  That's  the  enofineer's  mother.  He  is 
fatally  hurt.  He's  the  last  of  her  five  boys, 
and  her  sole  dependence.  It's  pretty  rough  on 
her;  but  the  boys  won't  let  her  suffer." 

His  words  came  like  a  reproach  to  her. 
What  right  had  she,  with  all  her  wealth  and 
friends  and  pleasures,  to  think  of  herself  as  the 
only  suffering  one  ?  What  was  her  sorrow, 
compared  to  that  of  this  bereaved  mother? 

She  felt  an  impulse  to  go  over  to  the  motion- 
less figure  and  speak  a  word  of  comfort.  And 
then  she  felt  the  train  slacking  up. 

"  We're  almost  there,"  the  conductor  said, 
as  he  passed  her  again. 

When  the  train  stopped,  two  of  the  physicians, 
having  heard  who  she  was,  came  forward  with 


Salome  ^hcpavrt,  ^Ufovmcr.  246 

offers  o£  assistance.     The  others  were  kindly 
aiding  the  pathetic  old  lady  in  black. 

And  then  Salome  found  herself  face  to  face 
with  such  a  scene  as  she  had  never  even  dreamed 
of. 

The  public  is,  through  the  "  enterprising  " 
journalistic  system  of  the  present  day,  already 
too  familiar  with  such  scenes  of  sickenino;  horror. 
To  Salome,  this  one  came  as  the  vivid  realiza- 
tion of  things  she  had  hitherto  carefully  avoided 
in  the  newspapers. 

At  first,  she  turned  faint  and  sick  at  the 
prospect.  Several  dead  bodies  lay  plainly  in 
sight,  partially  covered  with  a  blanket.  The 
living  must  first  be  cared  for ;  and  groans  on 
every  side,  from  those  who,  even  yet,  had 
not  been  extricated  from  the  debris,  told  how 
much  still  remained  to  be  done. 

"  Tell  me,"  she  said,  catching  at  the  arm  of  a 
doctor  who  had  been  on  the  ground  since  day- 
break, "  where  is  Mr.  Villard  ?  " 

"Villard?  Let's  see— tall  man?  Dark 
hair  and  full  beard  ?  Yes.  He  was  removed 
to  the  tavern  over  there  an  hour  ago."  And 
he  passed  on  to  another  sufferer. 

Salome  looked  across  the  railroad  track,  in 


246  ^at0mc  <f Itfimvxt,  ^tfovmcf, 

the  direction  the  physician  had  pointed.  There 
was  a  country  store,  a  "  tavern,"  and  three  or 
four  less  pretentious  buiklings. 

Hastily  she  clambered  over  the  torn-up  track, 
dow^n  the  embankment  and  across  the  narrow, 
open  field.  There  were  no  signs  of  life  around 
the  group  of  houses.  Everybody  was  at  the 
scene  of  the  accident. 

She  walked  into  the  cavern.  It  seemed  to  be 
deserted.  Through  the  narrow  hall  she  could 
see,  at  the  end  of  the  building,  a  dining-room  ; 
at  one  side  was  the  office,  where  no  one  was  in 
view.  The  clerk  heard  her  step,  however,  and 
came  hastily  from  the  dining-room. 

"  Is  there  a  Mr.  Yillard  here  ?  "she  bes^an — 
"  a  patient,  from  the  accident?" 

"There  are  three  men  upstairs  who  were 
hurt,"  the  clerk  answered.  "  There's  no  one 
here  to  tend  office,  or  I'd  show  you  up." 

"  I  must  find  him.  Is  there  no  one  to  show 
me  the  way?"  she  asked,  impatient  at  this 
last  trivial  delay. 

"  They're  each  in  difPerent  rooms  up  there," 
was  the  reply.  "  Walk  right  up  the  stairs. 
There's  nurses  up  there.     They'll  tell  you." 

Salome  turned  up    the  narrow,   dingy  stair- 


^^Xrnu  ^\um%  ^ti0x\m.  247 

case.  At  the  top  there  was  no  one  in  sight. 
Groans  came  from  behind  a  closed  door.  In- 
side, she  could  hear  voices,  subdued  to  an 
undertone.  In  the  absolute  silence,  she  heard 
the  Avord  "  amputation."  Could  this  be  Vil- 
lard's  room  ? 

She  leaned  against  the  wall,  unable  to  try 
that  latch.  While  she  stood  there,  helpless  and 
dazed,  she  lifted  her  eyes  to  the  opposite  door- 
way.    It  was  open. 

Inside,  there  seemed  to  be  no  one.  Certamly 
there  was  no  attendant.  She  stepped  forward 
and  looked  in.  There,  on  the  white,  clean  bed, 
lay  the  form  of  John  Villard,  his  face  whiter 
than  the  pillow  it  rested  against,  his  dark  hair 
contrasting  strangely  with  his  paleness. 

With  the  sight,  all  the  repressed  love  of  the 
last  two  years  swept  over  Salome  like  a  resist- 
less impulse.  A  hand  seemed  clutching  at  her 
heart.  Her  hmbs  seemed  paralyzed;  but  in  an 
instant  she  was  beside  the  bed,  looking  down 
at  the  closed  eyes.  A  terrible  fear  that  he  was 
dead  swept  over  her.  With  an  inarticulate 
groan,  she  knelt  beside  him  and  laid  her  hand 
against  his  face. 

He  opened  his  eyes  and  smiled  faintly.  He 
thouirht  he  had  died  and  reached  Heaven. 


248  Mom  ^\\(\mx%  ^Icformcv. 


XX. 

Villard's  convalescence  was  slow  and  tedious. 
When  Salome  had  found  him,  his  dislocated 
shoulder  had  been  restored  to  place,  and  his 
broken  ankle  set.  Then,  as  there  were  not 
nurses  enough  for  the  great  need,  he  had  been 
left  alone. 

What  passed  in  that  first  ten  minutes  after 
Salome  had  found  him  is  still  a  sacred 
memory  between  them.  At  last,  she  said,  look- 
ing at  him  through  wet  eyes,  "  You  must  have 
a  nurse." 

"  Oh,  Salome,  do  not  leave  me,"  he  an- 
swered ;  and  his  voice,  weakened  from  his 
injuries  and  tender  with  the  passion  which,  at 
last,  he  had  not  been  afraid  to  declare,  was 
like  music  to  her  heart. 

She  bent  her. blushing  face  upon  the  pillow 
beside  him.  "  May  I  stay  and  take  care  of 
you  ?  "  she  asked,  softly. 


^ulomc  ^Ucpavd,  ^Ufavrnfr.  249 

"  May  you  ?     Oli,  Salome ! " 
Another  silence   fell    between  them.     Both 
hearts  were  too  full  for  words. 

"  Then  we  must  be  married  to-day."  Salome 
had  waited  a  little  for  him  to  say  it ;  but,  man- 
like, he  had  not  been  thinking-  of  the  pro- 
prieties. 

"  I  cannot  leave  you  to  hired  nurses  now," 
she  murmured.  "So,  there  is  only  this  one 
way  out  of  it. 

"  And  a  blessed  way  it  is." 
And  so  they  were  married,  that  bright 
May  morning,  amid  scenes  of  anguish,  and 
while  Villard  still  hovered  near  the  gates  of 
death.  And  for  weeks  they  remained  at 
"  Jones's  Tavern,"  he  ill,  wretched,  racked  with 
pain ;  she,  bearing  the  trials  and  discomforts  of 
the  place,  vigils  of  long  night-watches,  the  dull, 
dragging  anxiety  ;  and  yet,  there  was  never  a 
happier  or  more  blessed  honeymoon. 

When  he  was  able  to  be  moved  on  a 
stretcher,  he  was  taken  to  Shepardtown.  Their 
home-coming  Avas  a  glad  one,  although  it  was 
necessarily  quiet.  Every  operative  in  the  mills 
had  been  at  the  station,  when  the  train  that 
bore  the  two  who  had  done  so  much  for  them 


250  ^atomc  <#l»fjmnT,  '^tfovtmv. 

came  steaming  in.  Salome  nodded  to  many  of 
them,  with  moist  but  happy  eyes.  But  the 
family  physician,  who  had  met  them  in  Boston, 
would  allow  of  no  hand-shaking. 

"  Time  enough  for  that  by  and  by,"  he 
told  the  men  who  stood  foremost  in  the  crowd. 
"Do  you  want  to  kill  him?  " 

He  could  not  prevent  several  of  the  strong- 
est ones  from  stepping  forward,  however,  and 
taking  the  stretcher  in  their  own  hands,  and  bear- 
ing Villard  very  gently  to  the  waiting  carriage. 

"  I  never  thought  to  enter  this  house  so," 
Villard  whispered  to  Salome,  when  he  was 
carefully  borne  up  the  stairs  in  the  Shepard 
mansion  and  placed  tenderly  in  bed. 

"  Thank  Heaven,  you  were  permitted  to 
come,  even  so,"  she  replied,  with  a  shudder. 
He  had  been  so  near  Death's  door,  instead ! 

"  I  can't  and  won't  say  I  approve  of  what 
you've  done,"  said  Mrs.  Soule  that  night.  "If 
you  must  marry  him  at  all,  I  could  not  see  why 
you  should  Avant  to  do  it  then  and  there.  You 
miofht  have  waited,  I  think,  and  had  such  a 
wedding  as  befits  a  daughter  of  the  Bour- 
dillons.  Besides,  all  this  watching  and  care  has 
pulled  you  down.     You  look  pale  and  worn. 


<^al0mc  <^hcimrd,  fiCfovmcv,  251 

You'll  lose  your  beauty  before  you  are  thirty- 
five." 

Salome  did  not  answer.  These  matters 
seemed  so  trivial. 

"  I  suppose,  at  least,  you'll  give  a  reception 
when  he  gets  well  enough.  You  really  owe  it 
to  society  and  your  o^vn  position.  All  your 
father's,  your  mother's,  and  your  own  friends 
will  expect  it.  You  have  planned  for  that,  I 
suppose  ?  Since  you  had  no  wedding  gown,  you 
ought  to  give  Redfern  carte  blanche  for  your 
reception   gown.     Have  you  written  them  ?  " 

"  Auntie,"  said  Salome,  "  John  and  I  have 
been,  in  these  past  weeks,  where  we  did  not 
think  of  party  gowns." 

"No,  I  suppose  there  was  not  much  at 
Jones's  Crossing  to  remind  you  of  them.  But 
noAv,  you  certainly  are  thinking  of  one  note?  " 

Salome  sighed.  There  was  really  no  use  in 
expecting  her  little,  exquisite,  cameo-cut  aunt 
to  understand  her. 

"  I  suppose  Ave  may  give  some  sort  of  recep- 
tion. All  my  people  are  waiting  anxiously  to 
see  John,"  she  said. 

"  Factory-people  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Soule 
indignantly ;  but  her  niece  had  moved  away. 


252  ^^Umt  ^Tnt\m\%  'gtUvnux, 

It  was  several  weeks  later,  when  Villard  was 
first  able  to  come  downstairs.  As  soon  as 
possible  for  liim  to  bear  the  excitement,  the 
operatives  were  invited  to  the  house  one  even- 
ing, and  permitted  to  shake  hands  with  the  man 
whom  they  had  always  considered  their  friend, 
and  to  whom  they  had  now  become  closely  en- 
deared. The  marriage  between  him  and 
Salome  had,  somehow,  seemed  to  draw  him 
closer  to  them.  They  were  now  his  people  as 
well  as  hers. 

"  This  isn't  going  to  take  you  away  from  us 
at  the  Hall  ?  "  said  one  of  the  young  men  dur- 
ino;  the  evenino;.  "  Mr.  Fales  and  Mr.  Welman 
are  good — but  they  are  not  you." 

"  I  shall  be  there  every  evening,"  was  Vil- 
lard's  reply.  "  I  am  much  more  anxious  not 
to  lose  you  than  you  can  be  not  to  lose  me." 

"  I  don't  know  about  that,"  the  younger  one 
said. 

When  they  had  all  gone  away,  and  Marion 
had  sent  them  both  upstairs  for  the  night, 
Salome  drew  her  husband  down  to  her  favorite 
seat  in  a  cosy  bay-window,  where  the  August 
moon  was  streamino-  in  throusfh  vines  and  foli- 
age,  making  a  checkered  radiance  around  them. 


^alomf  <#ltcpat:il,  |Ufovmcv.  253 

"  John,"  she  began,  "  I  have  a  plan  to  tell 

you." 

"  What  is  it,  dear  ?  "  he  asked,  drawing-  her 
head  to  his  shoulder. 

"  I  am  going  to  retire  from  active  business." 
She  laughed  softly. 

"  What  can  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Can't  you  see  ?  I'm  going  to  retire.  You 
arc  now  the  head  of  the  Shawsheen  Mills." 

Villard  said  nothing.  In  spite  of  the  great 
love  between  them,  he  could  not  forget  that 
she  was  wealthy  nor  that  he  was  poor. 

"  I  have  to-day  made  over  the  entire  mill- 
property  to  you,"  she  went  on,  "  I  am  not 
going  to  have  it  said  that  your  wife  has  all  the 
money  and  all  the  power,  and  that  you  are 
only  her  dependent." 

"  Salome  !  you  dear,  generous  heart,"  said 
Villard  brokenly ;  "  I  cannot  accept."  He 
felt  that  she  had  divined  his  sensitiveness, 
although  she  had  been  too  delicate  to  speak  of 
it.     "  I  am  poor,  but  I  am  not  a  beggar." 

"  And  I,  too,  am  proud,"  she  replied,  laying 
her  hand  on  his  cheek.  "  I  will  not  have 
people  saying  that  you  are  tied  to  a  rich  mfe 
and  are   subject  to  her  whims.     Oh,  I  know 


254  ^alom^  ^Ucpiu'tl,  ^Ictovmcv. 

how  they  talk  ;  I  have  seen  and  heard  them 
all  my  life  !  Why,  they  Avould  say  you  were 
a  fortune-hunter." 

"  You  do  not  think  so?  "  he  asked,  gently. 

"  Confess,  dear,"  she  answered  him.  "  If  it 
had  not  been  for  that,  wouldn't  you  have 
spoken  long  ago  ?  " 

Villard  pressed  her  closer. 

"I  came  very  near  it,  as  it  was,"  he  said, 
presently.  "  But  I  could  not  bear  to  be 
thouofht  that." 

"  I  had  the  necessary  papers  made  out  this 
afternoon,"  she  said  after  an  eloquent  silence, 
"  when  I  was  out.  So  you  see  the  thing  is 
done  whether  you  will  or  not.  You  need  have 
no  hesitation.  I  still  have  a  large  fortune  left, 
you  know,  from  the  Bourdillons." 

"  If  it  were  anybody  else  in  the  world  but 
my  noble,  generous  wife,"  he  began,  "1  would 
refuse,  even  now." 

"  If  it  were  any  one  else  but  my  noble 
husband,"  she  replied,  "  I  could  not  yield 
control  of  the  mills,  and  all  the  plans  I  have 
cherished  for  the  employes.  But  I  know  in 
whom  I  trust,"  and  her  eyes  shone  with  wifely 
pride  and  affection. 


^al0mc  ^hcpvtt,  llrfotmcv.  255 

"  There  are  still  so  many  things  to  do,"  said 
Villard,  a  little  later.  "  I  know  I  can  always 
depend  on  you  to  help  me." 

"  Oh,  I  am  not  laying*  down  the  work  and 
retiring  to  the  old  life  of  idleness,"  was  the 
reply.  "  I  shall  leave  the  management  of  the 
mills  to  their  new  owner.  It's  no  part  of  a 
married  woman's  business  to  manage  her  hus- 
band's office.  But  I  shall  have  all  the  more 
leisure  left  for  doing  good.  I  have  no  end  of 
schemes  to  lay  before  you ;  and,  I  have  no 
doubt,  you  have  wiser  plans  than  mine." 

"  I  am  glad,  on  the  Avhole,"  said  Villard 
thoughtfully,  "  that  you  are  going  to  have  more 
freedom.  You  are  tired  and  worn  wdtli  watch- 
ing and  caring  for  me, — dear,  blessed  soul  that 
you  are.  Your  burdens,  in  the  past  two  years, 
have  been  borne  marveiously  well.  Any  other 
woman  would  have  given  way  long  ago.  But, 
after  all,  I  am  a  selfish  man." 

"  You,  John  !  " 

"  Yes.  I  must  confess,  I  w^ant  you  all  to 
myseK,  a  part  of  the  time." 

"  All  I  have  and  all  I  am,  dear,  is  yours. 
And  yet,  I  cannot  help  feeling  that  we  have 
still  a  great  work    to    do.     Employers,  on   all 


256  Mom  Mnimh  3ttmMv, 

sides,  are  looking  to  see  us  fail  in  our  attempts. 
As  we  stand  or  fall,  will  factories  outside  of 
Sliepardtown  be  benefited  or  injured." 

"  I  remember  what  you  once  said,  Salome. 
Your  brave  words  were  a  watchword  with  me 
many  a  time  when  my  courage  was  low." 

"What  were  they?" 

" '  We  want  to  show  the  world  that  the 
spirit  of  Him  crucified  may  rule  in  a  cotton-mill 
as  fully  as  in  the  life  of  a  saint.'  My  darling, 
nobody  but  you  would  have  had  the  courage 
to  say  that.  We  will  take  the  sentiment  as  our 
rule  of  life." 

"  And  act  on  Rossetti's  beautiful  words," 
added  Salome : 

"  And  though  age  wearies  by  the  way, 

And  hearts  break  in  tlie  furrow, 
We'll  sow  the  golden  grain  to-day, 

The  harvest  reap  to-morrow ! 
Build  up  heroic  lives,  and  all 

Be  like  the  sheathen  saber, 
Eeady  to  flash  out  at  God's  call, 

Oh,  Chivalry  of  Labor!  " 

And  then  they  sat  silent  in  the  checkered 
moonlight. 

THE    END. 


Frmn  the  Press  of  the  Arena  Publishing  Company. 


The  Rise  of  the  Swiss  Republic. 

ByW.  D.  McCrackan,  A.M. 

It  contains  over  four  hundred  pages,  printed  from  new  and  handsome 
type,  on  a  fine  quality  of  heavy  paper.  The  margins  are  wide,  and  the 
volume  is  richly  bound  in  cloth. 

Price,  postpaid,  $3.00. 

Sultan  to  Sultan. 

By  M.  French-Sheldon  (Bebe  Bwana). 

Being  a  thrilling  account  of  a  remarkable  expedition  to  the  Masai  and 
other  hostile  tribes  of  East  Africa,  which  was  planned  and  commanded 
bythis  intrepid  woman.  A  Sumptuous  Volume  of  Travels. 
Handsomely  illustrated;  printed  on  coated  paper  and  richly  bound  in 
African  red  silk-finished  cloth. 

Price,  postpaid,  $5.00. 

The  League  of  the  Iroquois. 

liy  Benjamin  Hathaway. 

It  is  instinct  with  good  taste  and  poetic  feeling,  affluent  of  pictur- 
esque description  and  graceful  portraiture,  and  its  versification  is  fairly 
melodious.  —  Harper's  tMaga^ine. 

Has  the  charm  of  Longfellow's  "Hiawatha."  —  ^Albany  Eveninv 
yournal. 

Of  rare  excellence  and  beauty.  — tAmcrican  IVeslejyan. 

Evinces  fine  qualities  of  imagination,  and  is  distinguished  by  re- 
markable grace  and  fluency.  —  Boston  Gazette. 

The  publication  of  this  poem  alone  may  well  serve  as  a  mile-post  in 
marking  the  pathway  of  American  literature.  The  work  is  a  marvel 
of  legendary  lore,  and  will  be  appreciated  by  every  earnest  reader.  — 
"Boston  Times. 

Price,  postpaid,  cloth,  $1.00;  Red  Line  edition,  $1.50. 


For  sale  by  all  booksellers.     Sent  postpaid  upon   receipt  of 
the  price. 

Arena   Publishing  Company, 

Copley  Square,  B05T0N»   A\ASS. 


IQOKS 


From  the  Press  of  the  Arena  Publishing  Company, 


Songs. 

By  Neith  Boyce.  Illustrated  with  original  drawings  by 
Ethelwyn  Wells  Conrey.  A  beautiful  gift  book.  Bound 
in  white  and  gold.    Price,  postpaid,  $1.25. 

The  Finished  Creation,  and  other  Poems. 

By  Benjamin  Hathaway,  author  of  "  The  League  of  the 
Iroquois,"  "  Art  Life,"  and  other  Poems.  Handsomely 
bound  in  white  parchment  vellum,  stamped  in  silver.  Price, 
postpaid,  $\.2^. 

Wit  and  Humor  of  the  Bible. 

By  Rev.  Marion  D.  Shutter,  D.D.  A  brilliant  and  reverent 
treatise.    Published  only  in  cloth.    Price,  postpaid,  ;^1.50. 

Son  of  Man  ;  or,  Sequel  to  Evolution. 

By  Celestia  Root  Lang.    Published  only  in  cloth. 

This  work,  in  many  respects,  very  remarkably  discusses  the  next 
step  in  the  Evolution  of  Man.  It  is  in  perfect  touch  with  advanced 
Christian  Evolutionary  thought,  but  takes  a  step  beyond  the  present 
position  of  Religion  Leaders. 

Price,  postpaid,  ;^1.25. 


For  sale  by  all  booksellers.     Sent  postpaid  upon  receipt  of 
the  price. 

Arena  Publishing  Company, 


Copley  Squ&re, 


BOSTON,  MASS. 


WoM 


From  tbe  Press  of  the  Arena  Publishing  Company, 


Along  Shore  with  a  Man  of  War. 

By  Marguerite  Dickins.  A  delightful  story  of  travel,  de- 
lightfully told,  handsomely  illustrated,  and  beautifully  bound. 
Price,  postpaid,  ^1.50. 

Evolution. 

Popular  lectures  by  leading  thinkers,  delivered  before  the 
Brooklyn  Ethical  Association.  This  work  is  of  inestimable 
value  to  the  general  reader  who  is  interested  in  Evolution  as 
applied  to  religious,  scientific,  and  social  themes.  It  is  the  joint 
work  of  a  number  of  the  foremost  thinkers  in  America  to-day. 
One  volume,  handsome  cloth,  illustrated,  complete  index. 
408  pp.    Price,  postpaid,  $2.00. 

Sociology. 

Popular  lectures  by  eminent  thinkers,  delivered  before  the 
Brooklyn  Ethical  Association.  This  work  is  a  companion 
volume  to  "Evolution,"  and  presents  the  best  thought  of 
representative  thinkers  on  social  evolution.  One  volume, 
handsome  cloth,  with  diagram  and  complete  index.  412  pp. 
Price,  postpaid,  $2.00. 


For  sale  hy  all  booksellers.    Sent  postpaid  upon  receipt  of 
the  price. 

Arena  Publishing  Company, 

Copley  5quar<,  B05T0Nf  /AASS. 


^^M 

I 

J'OOK-^ 

^^^ 

/t<9w  /^^  7*r^55  of  the  Arena  Publishing  Company. 


Jason  Edwards:   An  Average  Man. 

By  Hamlin  Garland.  A  powerful  and  realistic  story  of 
to-day.    Price:  paper,  50  cents;  cloth,  ^1.00. 

Who  Lies?     An  interrogation. 

By  Blum  and  Alexander.  A  book  that  is  well  worth  read- 
ing.   Price:  paper,  50  cents;  cloth,  i^l.OO. 

Main  Travelled  Roads. 

Six  Mississippi  Valley  stories.    By  Hamlin  Garland. 

"The  sturdy  spirit  of  true  democracy  runs  through  this  book." — 
Review  of  Reviews. 

Price:  paper,  50  cents;  cloth,  j^l.OO. 

Irrepressible    Conflict    Between   Two  World- 
Theories. 

By  Rev.  MiNOT  J.  Savage.  The  most  powerful  presentation 
of  Theistic  Evolution  versus  Orthodoxy  that  has  ever  ap- 
peared.    Price:  paper,  50  cents;  cloth,  ^t.OO. 


For  sale  by  all  booksellers.     Sent  postpaid  upon  receipt  of 
the  price. 

Arena  Publishing  Company, 


Copley  5qu2ir«, 


B05T0Ni  A\ASS. 


From  tbe  Press  of  the  Arena  Publishing  Company. 


Is  This  Your  Son,  My  Lord? 

By  Helen  H.  Gardener.  The  most  powerful  novel  written 
by  an  American.  A  terrible  expose  of  conventional  immorality 
and  hypocrisy.     Price:  paper,  50  cents;  cloth,  ;^  1.00. 

Pray  You,  Sir,  Whose  Daughter  ? 

By  Helen  H.  Gardener.  A  brilliant  novel  of  to-day,  deal- 
ing with  social  purity  and  the  "age  of  consent"  laws.  Price : 
paper,  50  cents;  cloth,  $1.00. 

A  Spoil  of  Office. 

A  novel.  By  Hamlin  Garland.  The  truest  picture  of 
Western  life  that  has  appeared  in  American  fiction.  Price: 
paper,  50  cents;  cloth,  ;^1.00. 

Lessons  Learned  from  Other  Lives. 

By  B.  O.  Flower. 

There  are  fourteen  biographies  in  this  volume,  dealing  with  the  lives 
of  Seneca  and  Epictetus,  the  great  Roman  philosophers ;  Joan  of  Arc, 
the  warrior  maid;  Henry  Clay,  the  statesman;  Edwin  Booth  and 
Joseph  Jefferson,  the  actors ;  John  Howard  Payne,  William  Cullen 
Bryant,  Edgar  Allan  Poe,  Alice  and  Phoebe  Gary,  and  John  G.  Whittier, 
the  poets;  Alfred  Russell  Wallace,  the  scientist;  Victor  Hugo,  the  many- 
sided  man  of  genius. 

"The  book  sparkles  with  literary  jewels."  —  Christian  Leader,  Cin- 
cinnati, Ohio. 

Price:  paper,  50  cents;  cloth.  $1.00. 


For  sale  by  all  booksellers.     Sent  postpaid  upon  receipt  of 
the  price. 

Arena   Publishing  Company, 


Copley  Squ&ret 


BOSTON,  A\/VSS. 


^^F 

^^^ 

^ 

i 

iOQi% 

1 

1 

^1? 

s 

^S 

T^XJRIT^ 

Fww  /i6^  ^^^55  of  the  Arena  Publishing  Company, 


The  Dream  Child. 

A  fascinating  romance  of  two  worlds.  By  Florence  Hunt- 
ley.    Price:  paper,  50  cents;  cloth,  $1.00. 

A  Mute  Confessor. 

The  romance  of  a  Southern  town.  By  Will  N.  Harden, 
author  of  "  White  Marie,"  "Almost  Persuaded,"  etc.  Price: 
paper,  50  cents;  cloth,  $1.00. 

Redbank  ;   Life  on  a    Southern  Plantation. 

■  By  M.  L.  Cowles.    a  typical  Southern  story  by  a  Southern 
woman.     Price:  paper,  00;  cloth,  $1.00. 

Psychics.     Facts  and  Tlieories. 

By  Rev.  Minot  J.  Savage.  A  thoughtful  discussion  o\ 
Psychical  problems.    Price:  paper,  50  cents;  cloth,  $1.00. 

Civilization's  Inferno:   studies  in  the  Social  Cellar. 

By  B.  O.  Flower.  I.  Introductory  chapter.  II.  Society's 
Exiles.  III.  Two  Hours  in  the  Social  Cellar.  IV.  The 
Democracy  of  Darkness.  V.  Why  the  Ishmaelites  Multiply. 
VI.  The  Froth  and  the  Dregs.  VI 1.  A  Pilgrimage  and  a 
Vision.  VIll.  Some  Facts  and  a  Question.  IX.  What  of  the 
Morrow.^     Price:  paper,  50  cents;  cloth,  $1.00. 


For  sale  by  all  booksellers.     Sent  postpaid  upon  receipt  of 
the  price. 

Arena  Publishing  Company, 

Copley  Square,  B05T0N»  A\ASS. 


From  the  Press  of  the  Arena  Publisbing  Company. 


Salome  Shepard,   Reformer. 

By  Helen  M.  Winslow.     A  New  England  story, 
paper,  50  cents;  cloth,  $1.00. 


Price 


The  Law  of  Laws. 

By  S.  B.  Wait.     The  author  takes  advance  metaphysical 
grounds  on  the  origin,  nature,  and  destiny  of  the  soul. 

"  It  is  offered  as  a  contribution  to  the  thought  of  that  unnumbered 
fraternity  of  spirit  whose  members  are  found  wherever  souls  are  sen- 
sitive to  the  impact  of  the  truth  and  fee!  another's  burden  as  their 
own." — Author's  Preface. 

256  pages ;  handsome  cloth.    Price,  postpaid,  $1.50. 

Life.    A  Novel. 

By  William  W.  Wheeler.    A  book  of  thrilling  interest  from 

cover  to  cover. 

In  the  form  of  a  novel  called  "Life,"  William  W.  Wheeler  has  put 
before  the  public  some  of  the  clearest  statements  of  logical  ideas 
regarding  humanity's  present  aspects,  its  inherent  and  manifest 
powers,  and  its  future,  that  we  have  ever  read.  The  book  is  strong, 
keen,  powerful ;  running  over  with  thought,  so  expressed  as  to  clearly 
convey  the  author's  ideas;  everything  is  to  the  point,  nothing  super- 
fluous—and for  this  it  is  specially  admirable.—  The  'Boston  Times. 

Price:  paper,  50  cents;  cloth,  $1.00. 


For  sale  hy  all  booksellers.     Sent  postpaid  upon  receipt  of 
the  price. 

Arena  Publishing  Company, 


Copley  Square, 


BOSTON,  ^^ASS. 


^' 


From  the  Press  of  the  Arena  Publishing  Company, 


COPLEY  SQUARE  SERIES. 


I.  Bond-Holders  and  Bread-Winners. 

By  S.  S.  King,  Esq.,  Kansas  City,  Kansas.  The  most  power- 
ful book  of  the  year.  Its  argument  is  irresistible.  You  should 
read  it. 

President  L.  L.  Polk,  National  F.  A.  and  I.  U.,  says :  "  It  should  be 
placed  in  the  hands  of  every  voter  of  this  country." 

Price,  postpaid,  25  cents;  per  hundred,  ^12.50. 

II.  Money,  Land,  and  Transportation, 

contents: 

1 .  A  New  Declaration  of  Rights.    Hamlin  Garland. 

2.  The  Farmer,  Investor,  and  the  Railway.    C.  Wood  Davis. 

3.  The  Independent  Party  and  Money  at  Cost.    R.  B.  Hassell. 

Price,  single  copy,  25  cents ;  per  hundred,  ^10. 


III.    Industrial    Freedom. 
Labor. 


The  Triple  Demand  of 


contents: 


The  Money  Question.    Hon.  John  Davis. 

The  Sub-Treasury  Plan.    C.  C.  Post. 

The  Railroad  Problem.  C.  Wood  Davis  and  Ex-Gov.  Lionel  A.Sheldon. 


Price,  single  copy,  25  cents ;  per  hundred, 


For  sale  by  all  booksellers.     Sent  postpaid  upon  receipt  of 
the  price. 

Arena   Publishing  Company, 

Copley  5quarc,  B05T0M,   A\ASS. 


K 


h  '^ 


'^^f:^ye^ 


:  'f^  A" 


IT-         A- 


V  V 


,.■  /•  '^~         ~  ' 


■\v, 


